


Spells of Healing

by Dark and Stormy (betagyre)



Series: Spells of Healing and Power [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexuality, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Baggage, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, First Love, Hawke Family Feels, Lost Love, M/M, Mage Rights, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, Red-Purple Hawke, Reunions, Romance, Sexual Content, Single Parents, Sweet Anders (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 233,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/Dark%20and%20Stormy
Summary: In Dragon 9:27, Anders escaped the Circle of Magi.  It was not the first time or the last, but it was very significant.  Caitlyn Hawke, apostate mage, fell in love with him, and her father died trying to help him.  He was recaptured, but not before leaving her with a permanent “memento” of their relationship.Four years later, they met again on the other side of the Waking Sea.  He was Tainted, possessed, and exiled; she was impoverished, mourning her sister, and thoroughly embittered.  Both of them had loved someone else—and lost them, since they could not stop thinking about each other.  It seemed hopeless....





	1. The Brutal Southern Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This story involves **major canon divergence** for DA2. Just how divergent that is, you’ll have to see. But it’s definitely divergent that Hawke has a three-year-old child with Anders upon entering Kirkwall, which is the premise of this story.  This story and its sequel do not exist in the same continuity as _any_ of my other Anders/Hawke fics. I use the same given name and character class for Hawkes who are with Anders, but all the stories exist separately from each other, especially this one. If a fic is not in this series, it is not part of the same continuity.
> 
> Regarding the multi-ship tags, they are divided after 9:27 and have relationships with other people before they meet again. Since this is an unwilling, extremely traumatic forced breakup, and they are still in love, there’s a lot of personal guilt and, later, mutual mistrust/doubt/worry over that. I don’t mean to diminish the same-sex relationships that they have to understand and reckon with (I’m actually bi myself). Karl and Leliana just weren’t the soulmates of Anders or F!Hawke, and Anders/F!Hawke is where this fic is at.
> 
> The characters that are tagged are the ones that are most important, but the whole gang will be there (although this story is _not_ going to be a retelling of all, or even most, of the quests—it’ll just include the ones that are important to the plot, and not in blow-by-blow detail either unless something is AU for this story and very important). There are also additional background or minor relationships that will occur/be referenced in this story, including Leliana/Elissa Cousland, Fenris/Isabela, and Carver/Merrill.
> 
> This story tracks from 9:27 to the start of Act II. There is a sequel that picks up at that point and continues. It will be focused on political maneuvering, the mage crisis, religious conflict, and it will be much more canon-divergent even than this one.

_Wintermarch, Dragon 9:27, Lothering._

“Out.”

Anders glared back at the stout innkeeper. “You must be joking. Look at the sky—look at the snow coming down! This is going to turn into a blizzard soon.”

The innkeeper pointed resolutely at the open door. “If you got more coin, then you can stay. Otherwise, well, the weather ain’t my problem.”

He clenched his fists, trying not to let magic explode out of him. “A _blizzard!_ People can die in that, and there are free rooms here! You aren’t losing any money from paying customers by keeping me an extra night. This is just cruelty for the sake of cruelty.”

“Rules are rules. If I let you stay for free, word will get out. I’m running a business here, understand? I can’t do that. If you’re looking for somebody to put you up for free, the Chantry’s that way.”

 _Oh, yes, a wonderful idea, going to the Chantry for shelter. That would work out great for a runaway mage._ “Could I just... sleep in the common room? On the floor?” he ventured. “All I want is a roof over my head tonight—”

Exasperated, the innkeeper shoved Anders out the door and slammed it in his face. Fat snowflakes instantly covered his blond head as he stood at the threshold, and an icy wind blasted his face in the night air.

For a second, Anders was tempted by a violent urge of revenge. A tiny flame formed in the palm of his hand, and he had the dark thought of setting the inn ablaze with it—but no, that wouldn’t get him a roof over his head, and there were innocent people inside who had done nothing to him. Still, what was _wrong_ with some people? Why were they so cruel to each other? _He couldn’t actually think that people would assume a charitable act in a deadly snowstorm was his new business practice,_ Anders thought contemptuously as he stalked away into the rapidly intensifying storm. _It’s just a petty abuse of power because he can. There are people who like to do that. Apparently not all of them join the Templars, either._

He passed by the Chantry without a moment’s thought. It simply was not feasible to ask for shelter there and out himself as an apostate mage. As it was, he’d had to bring the shortest staff he owned that was still useful and wrap it up to disguise what it was. The priests would know—and more to the point, Templars would be at the Chantry who would oh-but-definitely know. No, that was not an option.

This was not his first escape from the Circle, but it was the best-planned one—up to this point. He had chosen a time in the dead of winter, when the sky was cloudy and threatening to snow, in the hopes that the Templars would be dissuaded from a search by unpleasant Fereldan winter conditions. He had even pulled the mad stunt of diving into the water of Lake Calenhad, freezing cold though it was, in the hope that if anyone saw, they would presume he died of hypothermia quickly. He had avoided that death by warding every article of clothing he wore with cold-protection runes, though it had still been utterly miserable, and some amount of cold had still seeped through. And before he left the Circle Tower, he had gathered up everything of value that he could. When he finally reached a village, he had sold everything he couldn’t stand to part with, leaving him with an amount of coin that had lasted—up until now.

He was _so close_ to his goal, the Chasind. That was part of his plan too, head south to their tribal lands rather than east to Amaranthine or Denerim, as most people would expect. Just two more days, surely, would have put him in their path. There were some things about the Circle that he had liked, especially the books, but freedom was non-negotiable for him. Being a free barbarian was better than a lettered, cultured prisoner. He could _bring_ broader culture to the Chasind, after all. They respected mages. If he recommended learning magic from books, they might listen to him. The Alamarri, after all, had once been barbarians too, and now their descendants were modern Fereldans....

But none of his plans would matter if he froze to death in a blizzard.

 _What an irony it would be if my final escape was successful, in that the Templars never brought me back, but only because I died,_ he thought darkly.

He was on the outskirts of the village of Lothering now. There would be no more buildings on the road for a long way, possibly until Ostagar—which he could not reach tonight. Another wave of snowy wind blasted him in the face. He shivered, pulled his coat close, and raised his shoulders a bit to burrow his head into the feathery mantle surrounding his neck, looking extremely like a bird in winter himself if he’d known.

 _One thing is certain—I don’t need to be in an unprotected, wide open space in this weather. I’m getting the full brunt of it._ He gazed to one side; a forest loomed beyond. _The trees will block some of the wind,_ he thought, _and probably prevent snow from accumulating as thickly. They might even provide some warmth. Maybe there is even a hollow tree I can use as makeshift shelter. It’s a chance, anyway. If nothing else, there’s wood I can use to build a fire._ Shivering again, Anders took his staff off his back and turned off the road to enter the woods.

The wind did seem to be stifled by the trees, especially where there were large areas of pine, of fir and juniper, but snow continued to fall thickly. Anders trekked through the woods, grimacing at the sound his feet made, though there was no one to hear it. Surely no wild animals would be out in this either? He realized he didn’t actually know much about wildlife. Bears hibernated, didn’t they? He seemed to recall being taught that as a boy. They found caves and hibernated.

 _The only thing I have to fear is the weather,_ he thought as he searched in vain for a hollow tree that was large enough to shelter him.

At last he realized, with alarm, that his footprints had vanished, covered up by new snow. He had no idea how far he had traveled into the forest, but he did know that he could not get back to the road, at least not at night. By day, if the sun came out, he could navigate using it, but that meant _surviving_ till the sun came out. Giving it up for the night, he finally began to pull branches off trees for kindling and eventually selected a spot behind an oak with a very large trunk.

Using his staff, his back to the tree to avoid setting it aflame, he cast fire. Although snow continued to fall, the intense heat melted the existing snowfall away, leaving a hole in the snowpack. Anders stepped into it, took out the branches he had gathered in his pack, and started a fire in the middle of the clearing.

It was not ideal. The snow-saturated air threatened repeatedly to put out the flames, and kept them from getting as hot as they could have been, but the fire did generate enough heat to keep the little clearing mostly snow-free. Anders took off his gloves and warmed his hands and face. He felt a prickly sensation in his nose and cheeks and realized, with alarm, that they had been in danger of frostbite. The snow walls in front of him were turning to ice as the fire melted the snow and the frigid air refroze the water at once, but that was all right.

“I’m going to make it through the night,” Anders finally said aloud, feeling confident of that for the first time since the innkeeper had shoved him into the elements.

He had almost relaxed when the first pair of eyes emerged from the gloom, bearing down from atop the snowy walls of his little cave. Several other pairs soon followed. Anders scrambled to his feet, his staff in hand, as he gazed out in horror.

A large, strangely distorted wolf raised its head and let out a bone-chilling howl, a howl that cut to the very soul of the mage who now gazed upon an entire pack. He was cornered. His fire had drawn them to him.

 _What in the Void are these things?_ he thought. _Wolves, but—something is wrong with them._ It hardly mattered. They saw him as prey. One of them, the biggest one, was already advancing on him, growling.

Summoning every bit of his magical reserves, Anders let loose a tempest of lightning upon the pack, felling two and stunning most. He gazed up at the tree. No branches were low enough for him to climb. If he got out of his little hollow in the snow to try to run, the wolves would have the advantage, because his feet would get bogged down in the heavy accumulation, and he had no idea where he would go anyway. No—he would stand or die where he was.

He had brought a bit of lyrium when he had left the Circle, but he had used most of it to heal himself after that hideous swim in frigid Lake Calenhad and sold the last of it on the black market days ago. Whatever he did, he would have to do with his own innate magical strength.

The wolves he had merely stunned were getting to their feet again. He had no time and he knew it. Quickly he cast a fireball, noting with satisfaction that it took out the alpha, and rallied his strength for a fight with the remaining wolves.

* * *

On the other side of the woods, the appalling howl broke the silence in the Hawke cottage. The inhabitants had spread across the common living-dining room after dinner. Bethany put down her embroidery, Carver glanced up from his bowl of leftover stew, and Leandra set down the charcoal pencil she was using to draw a domestic scene of the family. Across the room, Malcolm and his eldest child Caitlyn glanced at each other in alarm. Instinctively they gazed to the nearest window, which overlooked the edge of the forest.

“That... did not sound right,” red-haired Caitlyn said to her father, eyes wide.

“Was that a _wolf?”_ Bethany added, eyebrows knitted together on her forehead.

“It sounded like one, but... wrong,” said Caitlyn. She glanced at Malcolm, who was standing up, his staff in hand, staring out the window. “Father?”

“It’s a blight wolf,” he said, his voice as grim as she had ever heard it.

 _“Blight_ wolf?” Leandra repeated in alarm. “But how? There is no Blight....”

“It’s a harbinger of one,” Malcolm said.

“Father, how do you know—” Caitlyn began to say, but she instantly gasped at the sight out the window, her question unfinished. Lights began to flash in the woods.

“There’s someone in the woods!” she exclaimed, reaching for her mage’s staff and leaping to her feet. “A mage, from the look of it! How....”

Malcolm was already at the door. “Damn fool, whoever it is! Why would someone be out in this weather?” He jerked the door open and noticed that his daughter was right behind him, her staff in hand. “Cait, are you—”

“I’m going with you, Father,” she said at once, her tone brooking no disagreement from him.

Behind her, Leandra wailed. “It’s dangerous!”

“There is a _person_ out there fighting off blight wolves,” Malcolm said. “We’re going. We’ll be safer if we both go! We’ll be back, Leandra, I promise.” He pulled the door behind himself and Caitlyn, closing off her miserable, fearful expression from his sight.

At once, father and daughter began to make for the spot where the flashing lights were focused. As she trod through the snow, Caitlyn reflected on the fact that her father did not argue with her or attempt to stop her from joining him in this, even though it was very dangerous. They had a lot in common and a certain bond, she thought, which even her mage sister Bethany did not quite share with them. Her non-magical brother Carver was certainly closer to their mother, though he wouldn’t ever admit it, but the truth was that so was Bethany. While Carver’s bond was based mostly on the fact that their mother was not a mage either, Bethany’s seeming preference for this parent was more that they shared domestic, artistic interests. Caitlyn and her father, on the other hand, shared a kind of reckless intensity, stubbornness, fascination with pushing the limits of magic, and more than a bit of a temper—as the stereotype for their shared red hair color always claimed.

The frequency of the flashes of light seemed to decrease as Caitlyn and her father found themselves getting slowed down in the woods by the snowpack. Alarmed, Malcolm cast a spell on himself and his daughter that suddenly made her feel a burst of energy.

“Haste,” he said in an undertone. “We still have to cast fire if we’re going to reach this person in time. Together.”

They worked together so perfectly, she thought, as she cast streams of fireballs with her father, running through the clearing snow with the aid of the Haste spell. In a few more seconds, they reached a huge oak tree, at least as wide at the base as Malcolm was tall. It blocked their sight of the cornered mage, but behind it, at least three blight wolves were growling and snapping. Several bodies of dead wolves lay in the snow.

Caitlyn did not hesitate. Raising her staff, she cast three fireballs in quick succession, one for each of the wolves. A battle cry rang from her throat, carried on the wind.

The wolves yelped as the fire struck them, setting their coats aflame. Malcolm cast quick, lethal entropic spells to speed their deaths as the unknown mage at last emerged from around the tree, staring at his rescuers in absolute shock. Caitlyn gazed at him. He was dusted heavily with snow, but she could see clearly the contours of grayish feathers on the shoulders of his brown coat, and beneath that, a mage’s robe and boots. His hair, though snow-dusted too and whipped about by the wind, was clearly light in color. He looked young, probably only a few years older than Caitlyn herself, if that.

“Are there more?” Malcolm called out to him roughly, having to raise his voice to be heard.

The mage shook his head. “That’s all of them that I saw.”

Subtly Malcolm moved closer to Caitlyn, slightly behind her, so that the stranger could not see his hand as it moved toward the dagger he kept on his belt. “Did they bite you?”

The blond mage shook his head. “I kept them off.”

Malcolm relaxed and moved his hand away from the blade. “Good. They are Tainted with the Blight sickness. I couldn’t have done anything for you if they’d got you.”

Caitlyn gaped at the harshness of her father’s words and realized what he had intended to do with the dagger if the mage _had_ been bitten. So, it seemed, did the stranger. He glowered back at the Hawkes wordlessly.

“What in the Maker’s name are you doing in this weather? Haven’t you got any sense?” Malcolm shouted, gesturing at the snowstorm that continued to rage around them, even though the trees lessened its worst effects slightly.

“I had nowhere else to go.” The blond mage gripped his staff tightly, staring back. “I was out of coin and the innkeeper threw me out.”

Something suddenly occurred to Caitlyn, and it seemed that it occurred to her father at the same time. “Are you... did you escape the Circle?” His voice was much softer with this question.

The stranger nodded. “I made it all the way here. I didn’t think Templars would pursue me _south_ in the middle of a blizzard, especially after I swam through Lake Calenhad in the winter—in runed robes, of course, or I’d have been dead from that within minutes. It must have worked, so far. I haven’t seen or heard of any Templars on my trail.” He paused. “You’re mages,” he remarked, stating the obvious. “Do you... _live_ nearby? Did you see my spells?”

Malcolm seemed to be considering something for a moment, perhaps whether to trust this mage with the truth. “Yes,” he finally said. “Yes to both. You’re closer to our cabin than you realize.”

“Evidently, since you saw my magic. Unless it was just that impressive.” He gave Caitlyn a smile and wink.

Caitlyn raised her eyebrows at the man’s sudden change of tone and inappropriate levity. What kind of person would... _flirt_... in the middle of a blizzard, after she and her father had just saved his life?

“Don’t be cocky, you idiot,” Malcolm said gruffly. “Your plan to run from the Templars in a snowstorm was a good one except for the _small_ complication that you almost _died_. All right,” he said, breathing, calming himself from the adrenaline rush of the fight. “I was... once in your shoes, many years ago. I did reckless things too in my bid for freedom. I’ve kept my daughters from the Circle by teaching them myself. I can offer you shelter.”

The blond mage nodded at once. “Thank you. I don’t believe I caught your names....”

“You didn’t say yours either,” Malcolm said at once as they began the trek back to the Hawke cottage.

“It’s Anders.”

“That’s it?” Malcolm said.

The mage glowered as he stomped through the snow. “My father didn’t want me. I stopped using his surname after he turned me in. To be honest, I don’t even remember it.”

Malcolm did not press it. His face softened further at this, and the lights of the cottage came into view once again as they approached the edge of the forest. “My name is Hawke—Malcolm Hawke. This is my eldest, Caitlyn. My wife and twins are in that cottage. I’ll introduce them when we arrive.”

Anders fell behind Malcolm, walking side by side with Caitlyn and shooting her quick glances that he must have thought were subtler than they really were. She understood exactly what he was doing and huffed, unimpressed, as he brushed the snow off his head with a flourish.

“In case you haven’t noticed, _snow is still blasting against us,”_ she said as they bared their faces into the wind. “That was utterly pointless if your goal really was to remove it from your hair.”

“What else would my goal have been?”

She did not deign to answer that, but huffed again as they exited the forest. The Hawke cottage was in a clearing only a few yards away. Caitlyn pulled her coat close and shivered as they reached the house. Her father paused, pressed his palm to a metal plate beside the door, and, after a moment, opened the door, holding it for them.

* * *

Leandra, Bethany, and Carver leaped up. “Oh, Malcolm!” Leandra exclaimed as he hung his coat on the rack near the door. “You did it! You and Cait did it.” She glanced at the third person, awaiting introductions.

“This mage is Anders, late of the Fereldan Circle,” Malcolm said. “And by ‘late’ I mean that he left a few days ago, with a storm threatening, and chose that time on purpose. That’s why he’s here.”

Bethany glanced up in interest at the mention of the Circle. Carver scowled.

“My wife and younger children, Bethany and Carver,” Malcolm said to Anders. “Now—when did you last eat?”

“Breakfast,” Anders said. “You don’t have to—”

Malcolm took him by the shoulder and marched him to the table, where Carver was slurping down the last of his stew. He picked up an empty bowl, filled it with stew from the pot that was still warm, and placed it in front of the mage along with a soup spoon. “Yes, I do. Eat.”

Anders did not argue any further, but obediently started to eat the food. Carver glared hotly at his unwanted table companion and moved away. He eyed his older sister, then Anders, suspicion radiating from his blue eyes. Caitlyn met his stare with her own, unconcerned.

Anders was oblivious to the glares. He immediately found that he was a lot hungrier than he had realized, and within a few minutes, the stew was gone. He took a deep breath as Malcolm placed a cup of water in front of him, then downed that too. This was really a very pleasant domestic scene, he thought—the gruff but kind father, the quiet mother, the fireplace, the hearty food. He tried to remember what Hawke had told him about his family. _He said he kept his daughters from the Circle,_ Anders thought. That meant that both girls—well, Caitlyn was a woman, really—were mages, but Carver was not.

It was perfectly clear to Anders that Carver disliked and distrusted him. He supposed he _was_ a stranger in their house, but none of the others had that reaction. Bethany, the dark-haired younger daughter, was staring at him in interest, but it seemed to be simple curiosity about something. She had looked up when her father mentioned the Circle; was that it? _I can tell her all about the Circle,_ he thought darkly. _If she thinks she’s missing out on something good, I can disabuse her of that notion quickly._ He then considered the eldest, Caitlyn. As soon as he looked at her, she glanced away immediately—though not a trace of hostility was present on her face now.

_Hmm...._

She had appeared like a living flame, long red hair whipping in the wind, and then had _cast_ flames at the wolves for him. She had scoffed at his attentions so far, but not in a hostile way. Instead she had seemed exasperated because it was inappropriate in the middle of a snowstorm... which was fair, he thought. Now that he had some food in his stomach and a roof over his head, he was able to think a bit more rationally, to look beyond immediate survival and focus on the details of his situation.

And speaking of which....

“Messere Hawke,” he said to Malcolm, “I can’t think the Templars who have my phylactery would pursue me on a night like tonight, and I don’t think they are anywhere near here anyway... but since there are three mages in your family, I wouldn’t want to bring them down upon you.”

Malcolm sat down and studied him. “I’ll respond to that in a minute, but I have to ask... what was your plan? Your goal? Or did you have a particular one?”

“I was going to seek refuge among the Chasind,” he said. “Or the Avvar... but I don’t know anything about mountain climbing, so probably the Chasind.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows went up. “It seems I owe you an apology for calling you an idiot, Anders. Your plan was risky, but it was actually well-conceived. Most mages who manage to escape just run, unable to navigate, until the Templars pick them up a mile from the Tower. The clever ones make it to Denerim or Amaranthine and live as hedge mages, constantly on the move.”

Anders chuckled. “This isn’t my first time to escape. I have some experiences along those lines too. I learned from them.”

Malcolm nodded in approval. “Ferelden has a treaty with the Chasind. You’d be protected if you reached them. Now, did I hear you say earlier that you _swam through Lake Calenhad?”_

“I runed everything I’m wearing against the cold,” he explained as Bethany gasped and even Caitlyn raised her eyebrows. Had she not paid attention earlier? Perhaps not; she had just slain the blight wolves....

“All right, then, that was incredibly dangerous, but no, you’re no idiot. Do you think they saw you make it to the other side of the lake?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look back. I hoped that they’d assume I would die quickly.”

Malcolm nodded again. “You may have bought yourself a lot of extra time with those runes. Now, as for my house—they can’t sense you in here. They could be right outside that door with your phylactery in hand and they couldn’t tell you were here with the door closed.”

“Really? What kind of magic is that?”

“You may not have noticed, but I had to put my hand to a metal plate to gain entrance to the house. The only people who can do that are members of the family. My daughter cast the wards, so as to let my wife have access too.” He gave Caitlyn a nod and a smile. “The magic is based on something I did years ago... a job... but there’s an additional feature I developed. The wards on this house obscure the blood call of anyone inside, family or not.”

Anders did not know what to think. A ward that only allowed members of a family to enter a building sounded _very_ much like blood magic to him, for how else could such a thing work? The fact that Caitlyn Hawke had had to cast it in order to let her mother enter, strongly implied that it was blood-based as well. She would share blood with everyone in the family; Malcolm wouldn’t. And a ward _against_ external blood magic—or what the Templars did with phylacteries—had to be blood magic itself, didn’t it?

 _This is obviously a decent family,_ he chastised himself. _I shouldn’t question this magic, because it’s keeping me safe. Those wolves might have killed me if this family hadn’t found me, and if they weren’t mages—or at least sympathetic to mages—they might have turned me out. Or planned to turn me in to the Templars as soon as they could._

He found himself becoming drowsy and attempted, without success, to suppress a yawn.

“Hmph,” Malcolm said, noticing. “I was wondering when that would happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Anders said at once.

“Don’t be. It happens. Now... this blizzard is not going to subside yet, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it continues all day tomorrow too. You shouldn’t seek the Chasind until the weather improves. As you said yourself, Templars won’t be hunting for you in the middle of a snowstorm—and even if they did work out that you didn’t die in the lake, they won’t know where you are as long as you remain inside this cottage. In fact, they’ll probably presume you died in the storm, since they won’t be able to get anything, any direction whatever, from your phylactery.”

“Once I step outside, though, couldn’t they detect that I’m alive and in the south?”

He stared ahead. “If they happened to have it in hand, using it, while you went outside... yes. They could.” He patted Anders on the shoulder. “But I don’t think they’d pick it up again after it ‘went dark,’ so to speak. They’d assume you were dead. And frankly, as long as this storm continues, you are better off staying inside with us than going hunting for the Chasind. You’re definitely spending the night tonight. Carver,” he said abruptly to his son, “what did we do with that dog bed? No offense,” he said to Anders, “but I don’t have an extra pallet. We... don’t have guests often.”

Anders had surmised that from the ward— _blood ward?—_ and the fact that the cabin was so remote. It made sense for a family with three apostate mages. “I don’t mind,” he said.

Carver had instantly risen from the table to go to the back of the cottage. He emerged soon, dragging a lumpy, rag-stuffed mattress.

“Poor old Grump,” Bethany said at the sight. “Can we get a mabari puppy in the spring, Father?”

“If your sister says yes.”

Carver threw the dog bed onto the floor in front of the fire with a contemptuous scowl, then stalked away. Anders wondered what in the world was his problem. Did he just dislike magic? Was he jealous of his sisters?

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he thought. _I’ll only be with this family for a short while anyway._

Caitlyn had been stricken at the sight of the dog bed. The mabari she’d had since childhood, Grump, had died of old age in the fall, and she still felt the pang of his loss.

“I’m a cat person, myself,” Anders told the family, “but pets are always good.” He glanced at Caitlyn. “I’m sorry you lost your dog.”

“He had a long life,” Caitlyn said, her voice strangely thick. She stared at the mage, holding his gaze. The flippancy and frivolity in his expression were gone. “They let you have a cat in the Circle?”

“I... there was a cat at the Circle, a mouser. I liked to think he was mine. He seemed to like me best.” He sighed. “He’s gone too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Got possessed by a demon and took out several Templars.”

Caitlyn scowled. Could he be serious about _anything?_ “That _can’t_ be true....”

“It was, though! It happened! They have minds too, dogs and cats, so demons could get at them....” He gazed at her. “I’m not having you on. I wouldn’t do that when you’re talking about a pet that died. That would be cruel.”

He seemed sincere, she realized. The irritation she had felt at the idea that he was making a joke evaporated. “I hope that you can have a cat of your own someday, now that you’re free of the Circle.”

He smiled back, but a yawn threatened again. Anders forced his mouth closed, nostrils flaring and eyes widening as the yawn dissipated over his face. Caitlyn found herself unable to look away from his eyes. She hoped she wasn’t staring... she hoped he didn’t _notice..._ though the pointed look he gave her once the yawn had passed suggested that he did.

He sat down on the lumpy pallet and drew up his knees, the fireplace on his right side. He could smell dog, but it wasn’t overpowering. It wouldn’t prevent him from sleeping. As he began to unlace his boots, Caitlyn found herself suddenly feeling too warm. She stepped back from the fireplace for some cooler air....

She glanced at Bethany, remembering that her father had told her sister that getting a new puppy depended on her approval. Grump wasn’t coming back, so perhaps it _was_ time for a new dog. “We can see about a new mabari puppy. If one of us imprints, then certainly.”

Bethany was surprised at the sudden change of subject. A grin formed on her face as she realized why her sister had abruptly addressed herself to her.

Caitlyn suddenly felt a surge of irritation. “All right. It’s been a long evening for everyone.”

“You’re right,” said Malcolm. “It has. We should _all_ get some sleep, especially our guest.”

That was true enough, thought Anders. The mattress beckoned.... He felt his leg muscles collapsing, ready to relax.... Malcolm left, and the family dispersed to their beds.

* * *

Caitlyn and Bethany shared a small bedroom. Caitlyn climbed to the top bunk and opened a book of magic to read. Across the room, Bethany took her seat in a chair and continued the embroidery that she had begun that evening.

“He likes you,” Bethany remarked.

Caitlyn scowled. “He barely knows me. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bethany stabbed her needle into the coarse fabric, lowering her head to hide the grin. “It has to start somewhere.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she said again. “He’s going to join the Chasind once the snow clears, anyway.”

“That was his plan,” Bethany agreed. “But plans change.” She sewed another stitch. “Imagine what it must’ve looked like to him. Snow and wind all around, wolves nipping at him, and then suddenly there you are to save him with your fire magic.”

Caitlyn slammed her book shut. “This discussion is at an end, _little_ sister.”

“All right,” Bethany said airily.

“He is a Circle escapee passing through,” she said, teeth clenched. “A chance meeting. I am _glad_ that Father and I saw his spells—I’m glad we could save a life, help another mage—but it was a chance meeting. We’re not going to see him again once he is able to continue south.”

“All right,” Bethany said again.

Exasperated, Caitlyn growled to herself and flung her body down on her pillow.

* * *

As Malcolm had predicted, the snowstorm continued unabated the next morning. Snow had drifted several feet high. Since there were three—no, _four_ —mages in the cabin, they _could_ clear the snow if they wanted, but it was high enough that they basically would be clearing tunnels in it, and it was still blowing and falling anyway. It would be extremely dangerous to leave the house for any purpose other than to gather firewood or something else that they could do close by. Navigation itself was difficult with most features obscured by snow and the sun hidden by dark clouds.

Anders was standing by the window, gazing at the snow that completely blocked his view. “Well,” he remarked, “I guess it’s safe to say I wouldn’t have survived this even if I had managed to kill the blight wolves by myself.” He turned to Malcolm. “Thank you.”

“Told you it would continue,” said Malcolm. He pulled up an extra chair to the table. “And, seriously, consider staying here at least until this clears. You’re safe in this cabin.”

“I was wondering about that,” Anders ventured hesitantly. “That ward... is it... well... blood magic?”

In the corner, Carver tensed. Caitlyn emerged fully from her bedroom. “No, it’s not,” she answered, walking into the common room. “I _did_ have to cut myself—but it’s not _blood magic._ I didn’t use my blood to _fuel_ the spell. It just... recognizes family.”

Malcolm was grimacing and looking down at the floor, but neither his daughter nor Anders noticed. For his part, Anders thought this still sounded like blood magic... but then, it wasn’t _that_ different at its core from what Templars did with phylacteries. If one was blood magic, so was the other, he thought mutinously.

 _No. Don’t think about Templars right now,_ he scolded himself.

“You said last night that the innkeeper threw you out because you ran out of coin,” Malcolm said to Anders. “How... if I may ask... did you come by your coin?”

“I brought some things with me and sold them as soon as I could,” he explained. “I didn’t earn it by doing magic, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Malcolm nodded. “I _was_ concerned about it, to be quite honest. There is always a bounty for reporting magic. It’s why... well, we’ve been settled in this cottage for a while, but for the first several years after my escape, my wife and I had to go on the run a lot for that very reason. People I had helped reported me.”

Anders sat down at the table and faced the other mage. “I made that mistake the first time I managed a lengthy escape. I’m a Healer, and... I wanted to help people.” He glowered at the table. “I didn’t think they would turn on me.”

Caitlyn stepped closer to the table, hovering to one side of her father, interested in the conversation.

“Desperate people will. They hate themselves while doing it—they know it’s wrong; they know it’s a betrayal—but then they tell themselves later that they’re just following the law, whether of the kingdom or the Maker.”

“The law is unjust,” grumbled Anders. “I saw it. You must have too. If we did, so could they. I don’t excuse them. They’re complicit. If enough people wanted this changed, it would happen.”

Malcolm patted his shoulder. “You can’t spend your whole life railing against everything you think is unjust,” he said. “Just some advice from an old man who has walked in your shoes before.” He glanced up at Caitlyn, whom he finally noticed. “Have a seat.”

She sat down, not quite wanting to meet the eyes of their guest. Her behavior last night, as he had been getting ready for bed, was fresh in her mind and she was seeing it with clear eyes now. She really, really hoped that he had not remembered....

“Good morning,” he greeted her. “It looks like I’m stuck here for a while—and I wanted to thank you for those magnificent fireballs last night. Thanks to _both_ of you,” he amended. “I might have been able to kill those wolves myself eventually, but this....” He gazed at the snow-encrusted window. “This would have killed me.” The smile faded from his face. “I left the Circle so that I could die free, but it wasn’t really my intention for that to happen so _soon._ So—thank you.”

“What were you able to bring with you?” Caitlyn asked him, her voice surprisingly gentle. “I heard you say that you sold things for coin. What do you still have?”

He opened his pack and dumped its contents on the table. Caitlyn examined the objects. A flask of elfroot... a book of some sort that appeared to be bound by him, perhaps a diary or grimoire... a small slab of smoked, cured meat, wrapped in cheesecloth... a little embroidered pillow... a printed book, presumably taken from the Circle, about healing magic... a guide to edible plants....

“In _winter?”_ she said, raising her eyebrows at Anders as she smiled teasingly.

“You never know,” he defended himself. He picked up the book, revealing the last item. Caitlyn’s green eyes went wide as she stared at a tarnished, antiqued silver ring set with a small blue sapphire.

“You didn’t sell _that?”_ she burst out, though her father shook his head at her, apparently realizing something.

“It was my mother’s,” Anders said defensively. “It was sent to me after she... died two years ago.” He began to put the items back into his pack. “This and the pillow are all I have of her. I wasn’t going to sell that unless....” He broke off. Apparently, he realized suddenly, he couldn’t have sold it _at all._

Caitlyn felt abashed. “I’m sorry, then,” she said. “I understand, I think. But... she wouldn’t have wanted you to _die_ for her ring, I’m sure.”

“And I didn’t, thanks to you and your family.”

“Cait,” Malcolm said quietly, “you don’t know what you would have done in the same situation. Don’t be so hard on him.”

She paused, then nodded. “Well, I’m glad that we were there, then.” Summoning her courage, trying to suppress her own embarrassment, she forced herself to meet the mage’s eyes with hers. “It’s so incredibly unlikely that you would have stopped, and made camp, so close to a family of apostates, of all people. I think you were meant to escape successfully this time.”

He nodded, smiling. “I think so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly feel pretty bad about drawing this sweet domestic scene, knowing I’m going to stab, tear it to bits, and break everyone’s heart, but so it is.
> 
> And oh, yes, the ward is blood magic (sorry Hawke). It’s obviously based on the warding magic used at Corypheus’ prison, so yep, that’s blood magic all right. Malcolm has told Hawke differently because she wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it otherwise, and either she or Bethany had to in order to let Leandra in with it.


	2. Come and Take My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my two commenters for the interest in the first chapter! This chapter is sweet, innocent, and... sad in light of what is coming.
> 
> I have occasionally used references to song lyrics in stories (particularly my huge _Harry Potter_ Norman Conquest AU story), but generally anything categorized as “songfic” is not my wheelhouse. I write first and then, later, may perhaps see some comparisons between the writing and lines/themes of songs—and that’s what is going on here. Several chapter titles—not all, but some—are going to be taken from music that I felt was fitting in some, usually vague and attenuated, way with what happened in the chapter. I'm into fantasy and folk metal, so this one is a lyric from the Blind Guardian song “The Maiden and the Minstrel Knight” on the album _A Night at the Opera_.

Anders was eager to help around the Hawke cottage while they all waited for the weather to improve and the immense snowpack to melt.

“You’re putting me up,” he explained as Mistress Leandra protested that “guests should not do housework.” “And besides, I’m not a real guest. You didn’t invite me.”

“But Malcolm _did_ invite you,” she argued. “It was not well in advance, certainly, but he invited you into our home....”

“He offered me shelter from a snowstorm,” said Anders. “Please, Mistress Hawke—I don’t feel right about having you wait on me.”

Over the course of that first full day, he learned the history of this family from Malcolm and Caitlyn. Twenty years ago, Mistress Hawke had been Leandra Amell, the doted-upon daughter of a noble Kirkwall family. She had given all that up to be with an apostate mage of Ferelden. _It must have been a big sacrifice for a wealthy person to make,_ Anders had thought—but he could not particularly blame her. He realized he barely knew any of them, but he still found himself developing a strong admiration for Malcolm Hawke. His own father had not wanted him due to what he was, but Malcolm seemed to have taken an almost paternal interest in him immediately because of the similarity of certain circumstances. Anders did not think that was his imagination. Malcolm had patted his shoulder several times, offered advice in a way that made Anders think he truly cared about Anders’ well-being, and... well, admittedly, he _did_ think this might be imagination, but he thought it possible that Malcolm wanted him to befriend, or even pursue, Caitlyn. But whether that part was true or whether he just _wanted_ it to be true, Anders did not think he was imagining the rest of it. Meeting a mage who had created a normal life for himself and his wife and children—two of whom were also mages, whom he had taught himself rather than sending them away—was special enough. Having this man take a fatherly sort of interest in _him_ was, even after just half a day, already awakening a deep need for belonging that he had known was there, but had suppressed for years because it seemed impossible he could ever fulfill it.

 _If I have to stay here long enough,_ he thought after having that realization, _I may have second thoughts about making for the Chasind._

Malcolm had not stated it outright, and Anders had not commented, but he could do arithmetic, and he realized that Mistress Leandra had already been pregnant with Caitlyn when they had eloped twenty years ago. Malcolm had managed to get free of the Circle for good due to a Templar within the Circle itself who was sympathetic to his situation and got his phylactery out so that he could live with his wife-to-be and future child. That was stunning for Anders to comprehend. There were no such Templars in the Circle _today,_ or at least none that he had met.

 _If I change my mind about continuing south,_ he thought, _I’ll just have to trust that he was right and the Templars won’t be interested in looking for me ever again if they can’t get a signal from my phylactery after this storm clears._

* * *

Caitlyn tried to be nonchalant about him for the first two days. Bethany did not tease her any further in the morning when they got out of their bunk beds, and she emerged from the bedroom to find that Anders was already up and about. She was relieved; she had been nervous about the prospect of seeing him curled up in front of the fireplace, still asleep. The image had formed in her mind overnight, and it was oddly appealing—which was why she didn’t want to see it. But he was staring out the window at the enormous accumulation of snow, which—to be fair—impressed Caitlyn as well. Living in Lothering, she had plenty of familiarity with heavy snowfall, but this was quite a storm, and it was still going.

That, of course, meant that Anders would be staying with them through the day, and very likely quite a bit longer, since this mountain of snow would have to decrease somewhat before it would be a good idea for him to leave. She was not sure when the temperature would rise above freezing or the sun would come out. Her father had been an elemental mage long enough, in tune with the elements, that he had a certain knack for predicting the weather, but even he could not make a guess about that. This was an incredible blizzard even by his standards. Anders would be at the cottage for at least a few more days. Caitlyn found that... she was glad of that.

 _He is leaving, though,_ she reminded herself as soon as she realized that. _He won’t be here. He’s safer with the Chasind anyway. Father may reassure him that the Templars won’t be interested in his phylactery if he’s gone and it’s “dead” long enough, but I would not be so sure of that. He said himself he has escaped many times. If he were to stay here, he would have to stay inside this cabin and never leave to truly be safe, and that’s not what he wants. That’s little better than the Circle itself. He will leave for the Chasind, so I cannot let myself get attached._ She told herself this over and over.

Still, she wanted to make a good impression, though she couldn’t exactly say why, given that line of reasoning. For however long he was here, she didn’t want him to think her some kind of blushing, innocent, awestruck peasant... _even though I am, in a way,_ she thought. Not _awestruck,_ but... well, there was no point in pursuing this line of thinking. She had kissed a couple of Lothering boys before, and one girl, but as an apostate mage who had to keep her abilities secret from outsiders, she simply deemed it too dangerous to risk pursuing a _serious_ relationship with anyone, and those curious, unromantic, idle kisses were the extent of her experience in that regard. However, this mage _did_ know her secret—in fact, he was in much greater danger than she was. The danger of breaking up with someone who would then report her to the Templars as retaliation would not be an issue with Anders.

He _wasn’t going to be around,_ she told herself. And yet....

Although she was twenty years old, she felt like a girl now. It was absurd to be awkward around him, but she had to struggle not to be even though she repeatedly told herself that it was stupid and didn’t even matter, since he would be gone as soon as he could. However, while he _was_ here, it would hardly do to let her embarrassment become apparent to him, which it absolutely would if Caitlyn avoided him and stumbled on her words while speaking to him. The entire situation was frustrating to her because she didn’t know what she thought, what she _ought_ to think, or, especially, what she ought to do. She wanted it to end—but also didn’t, because if her self-consciousness about this ended, that meant he would be gone. Didn’t it?

* * *

With all her anxieties and frustrations with herself, she would have been relieved to know that, in fact, Anders regarded _her_ as the more experienced one in the ways that mattered most. She had lived with her family, in the wider world. She knew basic life skills, which he’d had to stumble into during his escapes. He was the one who felt like a hothouse flower—after all, she had had to rescue _him._

On his third full day in the Hawke cottage, after the storm had at last ended, he finally opened up to her when they had a quiet moment.

“I have noticed that you’ve seemed uncomfortable around me,” he said, his voice strangely stiff and serious to his own ears—but he knew this was necessary. “I wanted to apologize for anything I did the night you rescued me that made you feel awkward talking to me—and you _did_ rescue me, so it’s not right that I should make you feel awkward after that.” He hated to apologize for being flirty with her, but in the cold light of day, he realized that it _wasn’t_ the right time for it, and that it had made her a bit skittish around him. That was the opposite of what he had intended.

Caitlyn stared back at him. “I haven’t been uncomfortable around you. What makes you think that?” As soon as the question left her lips, she regretted asking it, because she knew he _would_ tell her.

“You’re doing it right now,” he said with a grin. She harrumphed, but he continued. “When we talked about our pets... when I brought out my last few belongings... you were comfortable. But since then, you’ve been very... stiff. I don’t know how else to say it. But whatever I did to cause it, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to make you ill at ease in your own home.” He gazed determinedly at her. “I enjoyed those two conversations. I would like to talk freely with you, one mage to another. We’ve had such different experiences... and I’d love to hear more about yours.”

She drew up. “I am not ill at ease,” she stated, though it sounded like a lie to her own ears, and sure enough, Anders had to stifle a grin. “I just don’t know what to make of....” She broke off, reddening briefly, before deciding to take the plunge after all. Directness was her nature, as it was her father’s. She got answers, real answers, that way. “All right, you wanted to know what you did? You flirted idly with me,” she declared, though she felt her ears flaring hotly at the very words. “I saved your life, and you did that. Now, I am sure that in the Circle, there were plenty of attractive female mages and that they knew you and didn’t mind—because after all, none of you would have had any expectations of anything coming of it, since you weren’t supposed to leave or get married or—”

Anders’ face crumpled at that, and she realized she had wounded him with those words. But she did not like apologizing to people—well, anyone except her father; it made her feel weak when it was anyone else and somehow _especially_ so right now, talking to Anders, so she barreled ahead. “But you said yourself that you meant to seek the Chasind, so I just don’t think it’s right for you to do that to me. _I’m_ not a Circle mage. I may be fated to be lonely because I am an apostate, but that doesn’t mean that you can play with me.” The blush had faded from her face as she glared at him. “You’re leaving soon, now that the storm has ended. The cottage may be buried in snow nearly to the rooftop, but it _will_ melt, and then you’ll be gone. It’s best that I should be formal with you.”

He turned aside, a deeply pained look on his face, and stared out the window that was inches away for a few moments. He took a couple of deep breaths, staring at the snow, before turning back around to face her. “You’re right. I shouldn’t toy with you, no matter what. But... that really wasn’t what I was trying to do.”

“Then what _were_ you trying to do?”

“I don’t know! If you’re talking about the comment about my magic that I made in the snowstorm, I just... thought I was going to die, and then suddenly I’m rescued by this beautiful red-haired fire mage—”

She scowled. “And there you’re doing it again.”

“What I just said is _all_ true,” he said pointedly. Her scowl deepened, but he continued. “I just wanted to show my appreciation, I guess. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“That’s exactly it. You didn’t mean anything by it. That’s what ‘toying with someone’ _means._ You are going to go to the Korcari Wilds, to join the Chasind whenever you can—what’s the matter?” she asked, for he had turned aside abruptly again. He did not turn around, and she felt bad, as she inevitably did when she ended up taking her aggressive bluntness too far. “Anders?” she asked, using his name and noting the slight twitch of surprise in his form as she did. “What’s the matter?”

“My father turned me in when I was a child,” he said, still staring out the window. “My own _father._ I was twelve, and suddenly, my _father_ didn’t want me because I was a mage. I wasn’t even a baby who never had the chance to know him, to be hurt by that rejection. I was _twelve!”_ he said again, finally turning around to face her, pain filling every inch of his face as he clenched his fists. “I had friends in the village, and then suddenly... I was never going to see any of them again. I never saw my _mother_ again.” He closed his eyes as if to blink away tears, though she saw none. Perhaps he was too proud to cry, or perhaps he had shed all his tears long ago. “They let me keep _one thing,_ that pillow. I’m _astonished_ they didn’t confiscate the ring when she died. She had it sent via a priest, though... this old lady who always liked me... she’s gone now... she gave it to me furtively and told me to keep it secret, so yes, it would’ve been confiscated otherwise and added to their bloody funds. Something tells me Andraste wouldn’t like _theft.”_ He breathed heavily, trying to control his anger and grief.

Caitlyn felt guilty—and, too, this was the horror of nightmares for her, the fear that someday anonymous people in slotted helmets would take away her father, Bethany, or her despite the fact that they were all perfectly trained in magic, didn’t do anything evil, and posed no threat to innocent people. She didn’t have the courage to touch him, but she knew what she did have to do. Swallowing her pride, she took a deep breath and said the words that were so difficult for her: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all that up in your memories. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be rejected by a parent.”

His face softened at her words. “Thank you,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m glad you can’t imagine that. I mentioned it because... well... going to the Chasind is an option of last resort, not an aspiration. I think I would be safe and protected with them... but what I really wish I could have is a normal life again. A normal life like I was used to, not a barbarian’s version of a normal life,” he added, somehow managing to crack a smile and add a touch of humor in spite of everything. Caitlyn cracked a brief smile too, which seemed to encourage him. “Your father is a good man. I... respect him. I _really_ respect him. If he....” He trailed off.

“If he what?” she said. The praise of her father made her feel happy, and somehow, a bit... bonded... with Anders. She loved her mother, but her father was her role model, the exemplar of what she thought she should be as a free mage.

Anders shook his head. “It’s presumptuous. I shouldn’t.”

“Well, you have to tell me _now._ And I’ll decide if it’s presumptuous,” she added, a smile remaining on her face despite her resolution to be formal with him. “He’s _my_ father, after all.”

He resisted for another moment before finally speaking, though his voice was very low. “If he would take me on as an apprentice... I haven’t been Harrowed yet.”

“Do you think I have?” she said wryly. “It’s not the done thing in a family of apostates, inviting a demon to take over the body of one’s child and holding the threat of death over them.”

He managed a chuckle. “I didn’t mean that. I just... if he would have me here—if your family wouldn’t mind—I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can continue with my original plan, but I’m not dead set on it.”

“That is presumptuous indeed,” Caitlyn decided, though her eyes were dancing with amusement as she spoke. The truth was, she didn’t want him to leave, and this made her happy to hear.

“What is presumptuous?” Malcolm Hawke himself asked, emerging into the common room where they were standing in the corner. He eyed them. “Don’t tell me I need to put this fellow in his place _for_ you, Caitlyn. Give him a fireball if he’s offended you. He looks pretty flammable with all those feathers.”

She muffled a laugh; her father seemed perfectly aware that she was not actually offended at anything Anders had said, and was going along with whatever the joke was. Feeling bold, she pushed Anders toward him, noting that the other mage was visibly startled that she touched him. “He hasn’t offended me,” she explained. “He can tell you himself why I said that.”

Malcolm raised a reddish-brown eyebrow at the blond mage, who suddenly wanted to cower. But that would do no one any good, least of all himself. He squared up and faced this man whom, though he had just met him a few days ago, he very much wanted to be the father figure that his own father had failed to be.

After Anders made his request, Malcolm considered, briefly meeting his daughter’s green eyes with his own matching pair. “You’ll need to do your part around this house if we do that, of course.”

“I will,” he assured the older man. “I have been asking to help out....” He trailed off, not wanting to speak against Mistress Hawke to her husband.

“But my wife has treated you as a guest,” Malcolm finished wryly. “Which you have been. If you become an apprentice, you won’t be; you’ll be part of the household. But yes, I have noticed that you’ve wanted to help out.” He smiled. “I would have you help out by clearing tunnels through this mountain of snow except for the fact that you would have to go outside my wards to do it—so Caitlyn, you get Bethany and the three of us will work on that.”

“She casts better fireballs than I do anyway,” Anders offered.

“Hmph. Whether you’re saying that to compliment her or to get out of doing work, I _will_ want to know what your specializations are. You mentioned being a Healer, of course.”

“That’s my main specialization. I’m also pretty good at casting lightning. Well, electrical magic in general,” he said with a touch of cockiness.

Malcolm nodded. “I used to have a staff that was great for that... left it in... well, never mind. Anders—if you really are serious about this, you’ll have to do magical tasks indoors until... well.” He broke off abruptly, frowning, as he looked away and gazed into the distance.

“Until...?”

Malcolm glanced back in surprise; the speaker was his daughter. “Until we can be utterly certain that no one will be able to find him even if he goes outside,” he said to her.

Anders wondered about that. If Malcolm expected to find a sympathetic Templar who would smuggle a phylactery out of the Circle, Anders wished him luck with that—because luck was what they would need. He hoped he had not used up his quota already.

* * *

As the snow gradually disappeared and the Hawke family returned to their typical wintertime habits, Anders found himself growing restless indoors. It helped that the surly brother, Carver, was out hunting most of the time. He seemed to regard that as his duty, since his mother could not hunt at all, and the mages of the family did not know how to use a bow and either scorched or frost-burned most game that they killed with magic. Carver seemed to regard the presence of yet another mage in the household as a personal insult—or perhaps, Anders thought darkly when the young man was off hunting deer, he just didn’t like _him._ But Carver would just have to deal with it. Anders was Malcolm Hawke’s apprentice in primal and elemental magic—as it turned out, he was a better Healer already than Malcolm himself was—and that was that. That _definitely_ helped.

Malcolm had tried to teach Anders some of the entropic school, which Caitlyn could do respectably well herself, but it was completely opaque to Anders. Something about his specific connection to the Fade made it very difficult for him to do magic that, ultimately, was the _reverse_ of healing. Of course, the elements could certainly kill and maim, but it wasn’t their fundamental _purpose._ Decay and degeneration were the purpose of the kind of magic that Malcolm had tried to show him, and it had gone no better than it had with the senior enchanter at the Circle who had specialized in that and tried to teach him. He just wasn’t cut out for it.

“Well,” Malcolm had finally said, giving up on it, “it’s very, very rare to find a mage who can specialize in everything. As I said, you’re a better Healer by far than I am.” He patted Anders on the back encouragingly. “We’ll play to your strengths. Those lightning bolts you can cast are indeed impressive. They may have saved your life just by being bright enough that we could see them.”

Anders did not _dare_ tell Malcolm what else he could do with electricity magic. He doubted he would ever be at _that_ comfort level, and he valued this too much. It was thrilling, in a deep, serious, meaningful way, to live this way, as a member of a magical household—to be trained in his Maker-given gift, certainly, but to just live an ordinary life in every other respect, not to be stared at as if he were about to blood-sacrifice everyone in the Tower to enter the Black City.

For a decade, he had missed it. That he had known, but it was still somewhat of a surprise to him to discover, now, just _how much._

Talking openly with Caitlyn that third day was also helpful, and she had been much friendlier and warmer toward him since then. He believed he understood the situation: She was inexperienced with romance, believed that he was accustomed to dalliances and flirtations that both parties knew were meaningless, and had not trusted her emotions to remain cool and calm if he had persistently flirted with her, even if she knew he was leaving. He had not yet told her, but... there was a grain of truth to that. He hadn’t bedded Circle mages; they were so closely supervised that it would be a furtive, uncomfortable coupling, probably not in a _bed_ at all, and if he got a girl with child, the Chantry would take the baby away. They were too closely supervised even to make the herbal potion that could terminate a pregnancy early. It was just a disaster waiting to happen, and he had made sure that he had never gone beyond heavy petting in the Circle. In a couple of his prior escapes, he _had_ made it to Denerim—to the Pearl, specifically, determined to lose his virginity and confident that prostitutes, of all people, would certainly know how to “take precautions.” But the plain truth was that he was just as inexperienced in _love_ as Caitlyn herself seemed to be, and he _was_ only accustomed to meaningless encounters. That didn’t mean that he didn’t care about hurting her—quite the opposite—but he wished he could tell her that it was all right, that he was unsure too, not some sort of carelessly cruel rake.

He wanted this to change. A committed, loving relationship was another part of normal life for which he realized he had a marrow-deep longing. He wanted to have that too, and he was pretty sure he knew with whom. Bethany Hawke was a sweet girl, but she wasn’t his type, and she was too young. He felt dirty and wrong even thinking about that. Caitlyn, it turned out, was two years younger than he was, but she _was_ an adult. It wasn’t a yawning age gap. And, more critically, he found himself much more drawn to Caitlyn’s fierce personality, her stubbornness, her boldness. He had more than a bit of a stubborn streak himself, and strong convictions, but her fiery nature complemented his tendency to defuse situations with levity and flippancy. It was _so_ fitting, he thought, that fire was her best element. It matched more than her hair.

She wasn’t ready, of course, and he was not going to jeopardize his situation by pushing her beyond her comfort point while he had just started training under her father. But now that she knew he didn’t mean to go anywhere, she was much more receptive to his attentions than before. He reflected on this as he went to bed one night about a week and a half after the blizzard. He was still sleeping on the dog bed, but they had cleaned it thoroughly.

_Caitlyn and Bethany had come into the house after thawing the pump at the well. “I think I threw out my back doing that,” Caitlyn complained as she stepped through the door._

_“Oh poor you,” Carver drawled from the kitchen, where he was plucking a game bird for dinner. “Let me guess, something else that the big muscular ‘mundane’ has to do now for you fragile mages?”_

_“Don’t call yourself that,” scolded Leandra from across the kitchen._

_“I’m not going to ask you to do anything,” Caitlyn snapped, sitting down—collapsing, really—in the nearest chair and rubbing her back. “But I don’t know how it happened.”_

_“You were bent over too long and shouldn’t have pushed so hard to test it,” Bethany said. Her sister scowled._

_Anders could not stay out of this any longer. He rose and walked over to Caitlyn to stand behind her chair. She made to turn around in surprise but groaned in pain from the muscular pull. Without asking, he cast a powerful healing spell at her back._

_“Oh,” she moaned. “Thank you Anders. That’s much better.” She rolled her shoulders to stretch them, her long, almost waist-length hair streaming down her back._

_He found himself transfixed by that sight and decided, in a bit of recklessness, to be bold. “I could also massage you if you’d like.”_

_She was absolutely still for a moment, and he felt a pang of fear that he’d done it now, he’d gone too far—but then she laughed. “I don’t need that now, but that idea almost makes me want to pull a muscle again.”_

It was the first time she had unquestionably, without a doubt, flirted back. Elated, he had replied that she didn’t have to pull a muscle, that all she had to do was ask if that was what she wanted. She had laughed and said no more, but it was more than enough. He had smiled goofily, grateful that she couldn’t see how giddy he must look. Bethany could, though, and she had given him a pointed smirk, well aware of what was going on—and clearly happy with it and not jealous of her sister at all.

Anders realized that some of his restlessness was impatience with the progression of this. _Sometime soon_ , he thought as he drifted off. _It won’t be much longer._

* * *

Caitlyn also realized what was happening, happening rather quickly in fact, and she felt turmoil about it. On one hand, it was unsettling because it was unfamiliar. When she had experimented with kissing, there had not been much associated with it except the recognition that the other person was attractive to her, someone she vaguely fancied. Beyond that, it really was mostly just curiosity—and a certain degree of defiance and rebellion. She _knew_ how dangerous it was for an apostate mage, a secret mage, to get too close to anyone outside her trusted family, but this had been a way for her to run up to the very line and yet not quite cross it. What seemed to be happening right now was something very different. Anders, of course, knew her secret from literally the first moment she ever saw him. He was now part of their household, learning advanced magic from her father. Her father, in fact, clearly approved of his interest in her. She wondered if he saw some of himself in the younger mage and wanted him, her, or both of them to have the kind of happy story that he’d lived.

But although it was unfamiliar and a little frightening, it was also something she couldn’t bring herself to stop because it felt so nice every time something new happened, some new barrier was broken. When she had finally flirted back with him that one time, and he had said that she only needed to ask, she had almost taken him up on his offer to massage her right then and there. Afterward, she had thought for hours about the idea of it, of his hands rubbing the tension out of her shoulders, shooting little bursts of healing magic into her all the while, as he murmured calming words to her.... She had gone to her bed thinking of it—and once she blew out the candle, her thoughts had gone a great deal farther than that. Maker, if she could kiss the bloody constable’s son behind the Lothering Chantry last year, couldn’t she kiss _him?_

But the fact that he _wasn’t_ the constable’s son was the entire issue. Anders was not going to the Chasind; he was staying here. Any affections between them had meaning and promise now.

 _Isn’t that what I wanted?_ she thought, frustrated with herself and the twists and turns of her thoughts. Before, she had been afraid of getting attached to him and having her heart broken because he didn’t feel the same. Now, she was afraid of beginning something that could be very, very serious indeed. _Isn’t that what I wanted?_ Caitlyn thought again in her bed. _I couldn’t have it with anyone except someone like him, someone who knows our secrets—my secret—and maybe even who shares it himself. Isn’t this what I wanted to have? Why am I afraid of it now?_

She was afraid, but intellectually she knew it was because it was unknown to her. She would have no idea what she was doing, and... _oh._ She closed her eyes. She was not absolutely certain of it; she certainly hadn’t asked him, but she would have been willing to bet her favorite staff that he had experience rather beyond what she had. What if he decided she was just a benighted rustic peasant? What if he thought something was _wrong_ with her? _Maker, maybe something_ is _wrong with me,_ she thought as her fear snowballed out of control. _Normal people don’t fret over it like this... do they?_

She stilled her breaths and tried to focus her thoughts. _Get a grip on yourself,_ she thought. _You’re not going to—just think it, acknowledge the thought and don’t be embarrassed; that won’t help you at all—jump in bed with him immediately anyway. You want to kiss him, so do that. That’s a step, and it’s not a step too far. It’s scary because of what it might lead to, but deal with it. You’ll feel worse if you push him away because of these fears and he thinks it means you aren’t interested after all._

The thought of having a plan, a plan that wasn’t _that_ intimidating to her, made her feel better.

* * *

Privacy was not easy to find in a small cottage. Her parents had the largest bedroom; she and Bethany had a tiny space that barely had room for their bunks, their shared wardrobe, and a chair; Carver actually slept in a loft above the common room. However, when Bethany and Carver left with their mother early the following morning to go into town for some purchases, she realized that she had the opportunity at last—as long as her father had something to do. He might approve of their budding relationship, but that didn’t mean that she wanted him to see anything that should be private.

Malcolm took a seat on the side of the common room nearest the kitchen, opposite the bedrooms, but he was still... in the common room. Sighing, Caitlyn decided that she had no choice but to give the game away to Anders and hope that he kept his trap shut in front of her father. She rose from the table and went to where he was standing, leaning against the wall, reading a book of her father’s.

“I have a question for you,” she said.

He raised his gaze to hers silently.

“It’s... about healing magic. Something I read.”

His eyebrows instantly peaked in confusion. “I didn’t think you studied that school of magic.”

“I just read something in a certain book and I wanted your opinion of it,” she said, making this up as she went along. “Could you come back to my room so I can show it to you?”

She felt herself grow heated as his face changed, his eyebrows drew back apart and rose knowingly. “All right.” He closed the book he was reading and walked slowly behind her.

Malcolm gazed up from his own work, gave a brief, satisfied grin at their retreating backs, and returned to his woodworking. She did not see, but Anders caught a quick glimpse. _Of course this sly old fox knows,_ he thought. _It’s not like she’s subtle about it. But he knows and he approves._

Caitlyn closed the door behind them quietly, without making it snap. He stood by the wall opposite the bunks, gazing out knowingly at her, an asymmetric smirk on his face. “All right then,” he said, “what’s this question about healing magic?”

She was determined not to be bashful, but stared back even though she knew the color of her face right now must be clashing atrociously with the color of her hair. “It’s... not about healing magic.”

“Oh?”

Suddenly her courage failed her. “It’s... about the feathers on your coat,” she said wildly. _What in the Void?_ she thought. _What am I doing? He’ll think I’m insane—_

“The feathers on my coat.” He fingered them idly. “They’re special, yes. They have magical power.” He smiled broadly. “Would you care to touch them and feel it yourself?” He met her gaze determinedly with his. “I’ll show you what to do,” he said, his words pointed.

She was pretty sure that was an invitation and a reassurance, and anyway, he seemed to have a better grip on himself right now than she did. She took a deep breath and walked over to him, raising her hand to reach for the feathers—

Her fingers had barely brushed the soft, ticklish tips of them when he wrapped one arm around her waist to close the gap between them. She gasped, but this—actually being in his arms, that line crossed, that boundary down—was just what she needed to let go of her anxiety. She breathed deeply and reached for his head at the same time that he threaded his other hand into her hair, massaging the back of her head.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered.

Her breath caught in her chest. “Actually, this is.” With that, she lunged for him, rising on her toes and pulling his head down to meet hers.

Not to be outdone, he pulled her into a crushing embrace as their lips met and parted to grant each other access. His fingers on his other hand tangled in her hair, tugging slightly, as she gasped for breath again right against his mouth and tried to deepen the kiss. Now that she had done this, kissed him, she wanted more, _more—_

She realized that she was moving—that _he_ was moving her, her feet fumbling in a vague circle, but she trusted him and surrendered to his steering. In a moment, he pushed her against the wall with a soft thump. Momentarily she wondered if her father would hear that... but she didn’t care, because in the next second, he was using the wall to brace her and himself as he intensified his affections aggressively, grinding against her down to their waists. He nipped on her lower lip as he slipped his hand out of her hair to caress the side of her face. A strangled moan escaped from him as she retaliated by tugging on _his_ hair with both hands, both of them plundering each other’s mouths all the while.

Finally they parted. He kept one arm around her waist and trailed his other one tenderly down the side of her face, her neck, her side, finally to rest around her waist as well. She let her arms rest around his shoulders, smiling as he breathed heavily.

“I really hope this is a good idea,” he whispered, suddenly looking fearful himself.

“It is,” she said—and how very odd, she thought, that _she_ should be the one to reassure _him_ now. “This is why you stopped in the woods so close to us that night. You just didn’t know it yet.”

“You really think so?” He looked strangely vulnerable.

“I do. You belong here,” she said, believing it absolutely.

He pulled her close again and rested his head on hers, his cheek against the soft hair on top of her head, holding her as if she might be taken away from him at any moment. A shudder escaped him, traveling down his entire body. “It _feels_ like belonging,” he finally said. “It feels... real.”

When he finally lifted his head, she couldn’t resist; she kissed him again. He pulled her close and returned it. This one was different; it was much more innocent and did not last as long, but it was sweet and somehow a fitting coda, she thought. “I suppose we’d better go back out before my father figures out why we really came in here,” she muttered.

“Oh, he knows why.”

She glanced up sharply at him, but he merely laughed. “Your father is smart. He knows, and he doesn’t have an objection.”

She shook her head in amazement. “Well, I guess that’s one less thing to worry about.”

“Worry about?”

She sighed. “We can talk later about that.” She caressed his cheek one last time, smiling, gazing into his amber eyes.

He did not overlook her affectionate gestures. “Talk?” he said wryly. “Or ‘talk’?”

“Both?” she rejoined. Her heart felt light and happy, and in truth, she was not that worried right at this moment. She was sure that the anxieties would return later, but for now, she was happy. She felt this much more comfortable with him now. _Of course this was the right choice,_ she thought. _I knew it would be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get them in bed in this chapter, but that was way too ambitious. Next chapter!
> 
> Although I’ve already spoiled that Malcolm is not going to survive, this experience of having a true father figure—however brief—is going to be very important for Anders and will have an impact on his character. Of course, the flip side of that, and of Caitlyn’s own close connection to her dad, is that it’s going to be utterly brutal to both of them to lose him.
> 
> The thing about Caitlyn not wanting to apologize for hurtful things she says is going to be a problem later on. She’s a reddish-purple Hawke, more red than purple, though very pro-mage, being one herself. But she is red in part to compensate for insecurities of various sorts—her ever-present fear of her family being divided, her lack of romantic or sexual experience, and later on, her “illegitimate” child, her broken heart, (in Kirkwall) her poverty, her status as a Fereldan refugee, and, yes, her magic—whether she admits that last or not. It’s a way for her to feel stronger, but the thing about not wanting to apologize—especially to Anders—when she has been inconsiderate of somebody’s feelings is going to be an issue.


	3. Could This Moment Last Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is a lyric from “Dreams of Candlelight” by Trans-Siberian Orchestra from their album _Beethoven’s Last Night_ , which has as its premise that the composer is offered a Faustian bargain to redo his life and live with his great love soon after they meet. Don’t read too much into that—as I said, I don’t do songfic as such—but it seemed fitting in a meta kind of way.
> 
> And um. I didn’t actually intend to upgrade the rating of this story just yet; I meant the scene at the end to stay M, but they didn’t seem to like that idea.

Malcolm lifted his gaze from the staff he was carving as Anders emerged from the room, attempting to look nonchalant. When he noticed that his daughter was not following, he got up, pointed his finger at Anders, and wiggled it, gesturing for the younger mage to follow him.

_Here it is,_ Anders thought, suddenly feeling his stomach sink. He was so sure that Hawke had not objected. Was he mistaken? Nervousness grew in him as he followed the older man into the kitchen, where Malcolm closed the door behind them.

“Messere,” Anders began to say, but Malcolm cut him off.

“Relax,” said Malcolm. “You look like you’re about to pass out.” He frowned. “I’m not going to curse you, you know. I just wanted to have a talk. Man to man.”

Anders leaned against the wall and breathed. Malcolm waited until he seemed more in control of himself before continuing.

“I may be many things, Anders... father, husband, woodsman, Fereldan, apostate mage... and other things. But I hope I am never a hypocrite,” he began. “You know the history of this family. Of myself and my wife. If you and Cait like each other, I have no problem with it. I’d like all my children to have the life I have had.”

Anders breathed again, feeling relief wash over him.

“There are some fathers who think they have the right to keep their adult daughters from what they want. I’m not one of them. Now I admit, I would see this differently if it were Bethany you had your eyes on. Or Carver, for that matter,” he said dryly, enjoying the look of horror on Anders’ face at that idea. “But they are not grown. If you like Cait, and she likes you, you have my blessing—though the only blessing you’d need is her own, as I said. But....” He considered his words carefully. “I do want you to consider one thing before you two get in too deep. It would be uncomfortable to her for you to remain in this household if a relationship doesn’t work out between you. And while I don’t want that—you’re a talented mage and I’m enjoying training you, and I want both of you to be happy—you must understand that I’ll put her needs first in that situation.”

He nodded. “Of course. That’s exactly what I would expect,” he said. “I hope to... be with her. I’m not toying with your daughter. I do like her... I’ve never felt this way about anyone before... and I want it to last. But... if it turns out that this is a mistake... I’ll return to my original plan, rather than selfishly subject her to that just so I can keep learning from you.”

Malcolm gave him one of the friendly, approving pats on the shoulder that Anders was now accustomed to. “Be good to her. She’s... a bit too much like me, in some ways... but unlike me, she’s never known that sort of love. She never believed she would, either, since she’s a mage. She’s strong and tough, but....” He trailed off.

“I would never purposely hurt her,” Anders said at once, “and I hope I never hurt her unintentionally either.”

Malcolm gazed sadly and sympathetically at him. “I hope not too. But what matters is that you make it right even if you do.” He gave him another pat. “You can come to me for advice if you like. I’ve been married for twenty years,” he said with a grin, “and I was a Circle mage too, before that. I’ve been where you are. Keep that in mind.” He peered at the younger mage. “Now go spend some more time with her.”

Feeling lighthearted again, Anders returned to the bedroom.

“What was that about?” she asked uneasily, moving away from the window to look at him.

“Your father gave us his blessing,” he replied.

“Oh,” she said, coloring faintly. “I guess he really does know all about it... and I’m sure this was accompanied by the usual ‘and if you hurt her, I’ll kick your arse’—or, in his case, ‘I’ll freeze you to a block of ice and shatter you to bits.’”

He laughed, took her hands, and pulled her into an embrace. “Actually, it was just ‘I’ll send you to the barbarians as you originally intended.’ And I’m sure _you_ would burn me to a crisp first anyway.”

She let him nuzzle her cheek. “Not a crisp. I’d just burn off your—” She broke off, her face suddenly turning blistering red at what she had almost said.

He drew back in surprise at her near-allusion. “Would you? Before you even saw them?”

“Shut it.” Her face remained tomato-red.

“Make me,” he challenged.

“All right.” She stood on tiptoe and reached for his face for a third kiss.

* * *

After that, they both felt much more comfortable flirting and expressing mild affection in front of the rest of the household. One evening about a week later, Caitlyn decided boldly to sit right beside him, and he decided, even more boldly, to play with her hair.

It was a glorious red mane, wavy and rippling well past her shoulders, and he had been itching to touch it. That he had now done, of course, but he could hardly grab handfuls of it and run his fingers passionately through it in front of her parents and siblings. However, he _could_ arrange it. It was just as silky and easy to part and braid as he’d hoped, he thought jubilantly. He parted small sections of it on either side, braided them halfway back her head, and brought the loose, unbraided tails together in a ponytail that rippled vermilion back down the middle of her head. She felt a happy, probably somewhat goofy smile spreading across her face as his talented fingers worked her hair.

“Ooh, that’s pretty, Cait,” Bethany cooed.

Carver scowled. “Poncy mage,” he muttered under his breath. “Is that what they teach you lot in the Circle?”

“That’s enough,” Leandra scolded him mildly.

“Are you jealous?” Anders drawled, undeterred by this sibling’s determined dislike and surliness. “I can do yours if you’d like. It won’t look the same, of course.”

Carver seethed. “You lay a finger on my hair and it’ll be the last thing you do, apostate.”

“Watch your mouth, little brother,” Caitlyn said coolly. “You’re talking about several of us with that word.”

“Now be nice, children,” said Malcolm, entering the room, droll sarcasm pouring from his words. “Don’t make me send you to bed early.” He gazed at his daughter’s new hairstyle and nodded in approval. “Very nice. If that _is_ what they teach in the Circle now, the curriculum must have improved from my time there. But I suspect it’s just a natural sense of style, eh?”

Anders smirked and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, feeling her smile as he did.

* * *

Bethany gave her sister a pointed look as they went to bed that night. “What did I tell you?”

“All right,” Caitlyn admitted, “he likes me.”

The teenager laughed. “You’re just now admitting _that?_ How long will it take you to confess the rest of it?”

“The only ‘rest of it’ is that... we’ve kissed,” she said defensively. “And... held each other. But that’s it. There, I confessed it.”

Bethany smiled. “What’s it like?”

She realized that her sister was asking sincerely, and not about the physical acts themselves. She stretched on her bunk and considered the question. “It’s... special,” she finally said. “I feel happy, but it’s also kind of frightening.”

“You have seemed a lot happier lately,” Bethany agreed. “You joke more. You smile more. It’s good! He’s good for you. What’s frightening, though? Is it that he escaped from the Circle?”

“That’s a part of it. I know that Father’s wards are here, but... it’s not right to ask him to stay indoors. Something will have to be done eventually, once spring comes. Maybe the Templars at the Circle won’t ever touch his phylactery again, but I can’t rest easy until I _know_ they won’t come after him.” She sighed.

“What’s the other scary part?”

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with my fifteen-year-old sister,” Caitlyn said.

Bethany drew herself up and peered out from her bunk, looking up at her sister. “I’m sixteen in a few months... and I do know where babies come from,” she said sarcastically. “Is that it?”

Caitlyn leaned over her mattress and scowled down at her. “Go to bed.”

Bethany was triumphant, but only for a moment. “He might be a virgin too, you know.”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, even so, if he loves you, he won’t care. He’ll probably like it.”

“I _said_ I’m not discussing this.”

“You don’t have to discuss it with _me,”_ she said. “But if and when the time is right, you should discuss it with him.”

The irritation suddenly left Caitlyn. She got back fully on her bunk and lay against the pillow. “I know,” she said. “But that time is not now. He’s only been here three weeks. I like him—I hope he stays! And he feels the same about me. But that’s not _long enough_ to know if we love each other.”

“It’ll be all right,” she assured her older sister. “It’s like Mother and Father... except easier. You’re a mage too, and our parents aren’t against it. It’ll be fine.”

In that moment, Caitlyn wanted very much to believe her, so she did.

* * *

There was a mild thaw the following week, and Carver took advantage of the relatively balmy weather—for southern Fereldan winter—to go hunting. Leandra fretted and fussed all morning.

“I feel so bad for him,” she said, wringing her hands. “You can instruct Caitlyn and Bethany, Malcolm—and Anders—but we can do nothing for him! He is truly alone in this family, and I feel that I’ve failed him. He learned how to use a bow and a dagger all on his own, but this new idea he has of wanting to train with a greatsword—who can teach him how to do that?”

“Leandra, you haven’t failed him,” Malcolm said. “You were never trained in swordsmanship or any kind of weapon.”

“I would have been in Ferelden!”

“Perhaps so,” he agreed. “Many noble ladies do learn the arts of war. Fereldan noblewomen are treated more equally with men than Kirkwall noblewomen. But that’s not your fault! If Carver is serious about this greatsword interest, he should probably train under that Templar, Ser Wesley. He’s a good man. Or even consider joining the Fereldan army as a recruit. We’re at peace, so it would just be an ordinary career for him, no special risk.”

“He’s very unhappy,” she said. “You focus more on the girls, since they’re mages... Cait especially... you don’t see how discontented he is—”

“I do see it,” Malcolm contradicted her. “I’m just at a loss to help him, and that kills me, Leandra! I want the best for all of our children, and it hurts that I can’t help one of them very much. You think I’m focusing more on Caitlyn because she’s a mage, but it’s more that I _can_ do more for her right now. I truly think the Maker Himself sent Anders to us that night....”

“You think they really are in love?”

“Of course they are!” he exclaimed. “I’m not sure if they realize it yet themselves, but they are. It’s just like us,” he offered, smiling. “I wouldn’t have wished that challenge on our children... but I see now that it is my duty to do for Anders and Caitlyn what others did for me—for us. Bethany is too young still... but I am sure her time will come. I hope....” He sighed, running one hand through his fiery hair. “I hope she doesn’t fall for a mage too, because it’s difficult, but what is to be, will be. And as for Carver... if this greatsword business is not just a lark, encourage him to join the regulars.”

“But he’ll leave us if he does that!”

“Leandra,” he said patiently, “it is normal for children to leave home when they grow up.”

She scowled. “So if everything happens as you want it to with Cait, if you find a Ser Maurevar Carver and a sympathetic priest, and they start a family, you won’t mind if they move to—oh, Halamshiral?”

He glared back at her. “That would be entirely pointless for them to do, so yes, I’d mind that. Leandra, _Carver_ is the one who doesn’t have restrictions on what he can do. Caitlyn and Bethany can live as we do, basically. Simplicity, isolation, and hiding, and that goes in spades if they have mage children. Unless they join the Grey Wardens—which I hope doesn’t happen—they cannot have more than that as long as the world is the way it is, so I want them to have every form of happiness that they can. That’s why I’m focused on Caitlyn these days. She wants Anders and he wants her, so yes, I want this for her and I’m trying to make it happen. Maker knows an apostate mage will have a challenging enough life; love and family is the best thing she can hope for, realistically. She can’t have a ‘career.’ But Carver doesn’t have those constraints! He could be knighted. He could become an officer. He could be anything! But _because_ he has no restrictions, he very well might leave Lothering someday.”

Leandra sighed. “I understand your argument, Malcolm, but it still seems to me that underneath this, you don’t _want_ to think about Caitlyn or Bethany leaving home, being alone in the world as mages, with all that entails, and without your protection, so you invent reasons not to.”

He was about to argue further when their argument was disrupted by a terrified bellow from the yard. The dispute forgotten, Malcolm and Leandra rushed to the window. Carver himself appeared as a tiny silhouette, rushing from the woods, obviously pursued by some beast he could not kill himself.

“All three of you!” he bellowed at the closed door of the girls’ bedroom, where Caitlyn, Bethany, and Anders were all present, apparently discussing magical theories. “Carver is in trouble! Outside, now!”

The door burst open and all three mages rushed out behind Malcolm. Anders momentarily hesitated about leaving the magical protection of the cottage, but it didn’t matter—this was a life at stake.

The mages stood together as a group, holding their staves. Malcolm’s staff oozed the dark green vapor of entropy. Caitlyn readied a fireball at whatever was pursuing her brother. Bethany prepared a kinetic force spell, and sparks of lightning crackled at the end of Anders’ staff. Malcolm glanced at them and cast a silent spell. Suddenly, all four staves crackled and flashed with red flames and white lightning.

“I’ll teach you lot that one later,” he said as Carver joined them, his bow and dagger gleaming with the effects of the spell too, to his surprise.

“Something—bear—but—spikes,” Carver burst out through gasps of breath.

“A bear with spikes?” Genuine alarm filled Malcolm’s face.

They did not get to inquire further, but they did not need to. In the next second, the beast appeared: a bear, but distorted, foaming at the mouth, gaping gashes in its flesh that somehow had no effect whatever on its stamina, and—yes—spikes protruding from its body. It bounded toward the group of mages, bloody foam dripping from between its decayed fangs—

All of them hit it at once. Bethany’s force spell blasted it backward, away from the protective arcane shield that Malcolm had cast around them. Caitlyn’s fireball struck it in the face, setting its fur aflame, as Anders’ lightning immobilized it. Carver sent arrow after arrow into the strange bear’s flesh, and Malcolm’s entropy magic accelerated the deleterious effects of all of these wounds.

It did not take long for the creature to die. When it finally breathed its last, Malcolm took down the arcane shield and released the spell he had cast that applied Anders’ and Caitlyn’s magic to everyone’s weapons. He held out his staff arm, forbidding them from going closer.

“That is a bereskarn,” he said, his voice deadly serious. “A Tainted bear.” He gazed at the dead beast, frowning in deep concern. “It didn’t hurt you, did it, Carver?”

He shook his head.

“Caitlyn—burn it. Bethany, if you can, help her. Do _not_ touch it. You men, inside, _now.”_

Carver was momentarily surprised at being called a man, but did not object. None of them argued, though every one of them had questions.

* * *

“Something is seriously wrong,” Malcolm said once they had all had a drink. He rubbed his forehead. “The blight wolves, that night that Anders came to us... and now this.”

“Father?” Caitlyn asked, suddenly very scared. “Are we about to have a Blight?”

“Please tell us the truth, whatever it is,” Carver added. “We’re all old enough to handle it.”

He sighed deeply and took another swig of cider. “I’m not a Grey Warden, as you know. Only they can say for sure about that. But... the signs aren’t good. Once in a while darkspawn come to the surface by accident, and they could taint creatures when they do, but two attacks in the same location this close together in time—this is not normal.”

“Malcolm?” Leandra offered. “Your old contacts....”

“You have Grey Warden contacts?” Caitlyn burst out.

Malcolm nodded. “They also helped your mother and me. All right,” he said, finishing his cider, “I will write to Duncan, the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. He needs to know about this. No, Anders, I won’t tell him about you specifically—but I’ll tell him that a pack of blight wolves attacked a traveler, and I’ll definitely tell him about the bereskarn. Something is wrong. I hesitate to say anything more without the input of Grey Wardens, but something has changed in the Deep Roads.”

* * *

Malcolm received a reply from Duncan two weeks later, urging him to come to Denerim and tell him everything in person. It was quickly decided that his wife would go with him—but no one else. The mages were uncomfortable going, and Carver seemed to want to stay at home out of pure spite, even though both of his sisters urged him to go to Denerim to pursue career opportunities. He seemed to take that as a desire to see the back of him and angrily declared that _he_ wouldn’t be the one to “tag along after Mamma and Daddy while the mages got up to Maker-knows-what.”

“Suit yourself,” Caitlyn declared in exasperation. She turned to her father the morning her parents were to depart. Leandra was excited; she was, after all, Kirkwall born and raised, and she occasionally voiced discontent with her simple life in the town of Lothering. Denerim wasn’t Kirkwall, but it was at least a great city, the greatest that Ferelden could offer.

“You’re sure you won’t come?” Malcolm asked his son. Carver resolutely shook his head. “All right then. Speaking of mages getting up to Maker-knows-what, I hope you lot don’t burn the house down,” he said gruffly, nodding at Bethany, Caitlyn, and Anders in turn.

When his gaze settled on Anders, the younger mage gazed back at him in awe. Hawke, he realized, was including him as he spoke to his children. He saw him as an adoptive son, of a sort.

_Is it because of the apprenticeship, or something more?_ he wondered, glancing at Caitlyn. She also had made note of that look.

* * *

Tensions ran high as Anders and the Hawkes waited for their elders to come back. While Anders had somewhat restrained himself on his favorite topic of the situation of mages in southern Thedas—no doubt by the voice of age and experience in Malcolm—he found himself repeatedly locking horns with Carver now that the Hawke parents were gone.

It wasn’t that Carver argued in favor of the Circles. Whatever his issues with his older sister, he was more attached to his twin than his demeanor would generally suggest, and he didn’t want his family torn apart either. However, Anders’ presence without a parental figure seemed to be itself a provocation for Carver to take the hardest line he could stomach saying, simply because it got a rise out of the escaped mage without fail.

“Your sisters haven’t been Harrowed!” Anders burst out one day as they sniped at each other on that detail of Circle life. “I don’t see Caitlyn about to become an abomination, do you?”

He glowered. “You can’t make rules based on exceptions.”

“You don’t even know that they _are_ exceptions. It’s not like we’ve tested it. It’s a bad idea that doesn’t make sense,” he insisted. “Maybe a mage was frightened—which, of course, they would be, since the Templars strike fear into all the apprentices that they could become abominations and be cut down dead on the floor! Maybe a mage was sick that day. Maybe they had a fight with a friend. Things can happen! And even if a mage does pass, how does that prove anything?”

“It proves that they can refuse demons. You came from the Circle. Why am _I_ telling _you_ this?”

“It proves that they refused _one_ demon, of _one_ kind, in that moment,” Anders insisted. “Maybe they’re vulnerable to a different one.”

“That is an argument for all mages to be made Tranquil, you know. You sure you want to go with it?”

Anders got really angry at that. Sparks danced from his fingertips. “I would _never_ argue for that,” he snarled. _“No matter what.”_ He glowered angrily at the young man. “If a mage commits a crime, punish them the same as any other criminal who does the same thing. Have mages themselves in the guard to do it in those cases, since there are... challenges. I just don’t see why mages must be treated differently—and the Harrowing isn’t necessary, nor does it prove anything meaningful.” He folded his arms, suppressing the sparks, and glared defiantly.

Caitlyn finally got up from the chair on which she was seated, next to Bethany, and took his arm. He seemed to calm down at her touch. She frowned disapprovingly at both of them. “Anders, I agree with you, but give it a rest. Carver isn’t the enemy.”

“Oh, there’s an ‘enemy’ now, sister?” he challenged. “You’ve been listening to him too much.”

“The enemy is people who think all mages are monsters,” she replied. “Who think we’re responsible for all evil in the world.” She turned to Anders. “I think you two should take a break from... talking to each other.”

“Good idea,” said Carver, getting to his feet. “You deal with him if you like.”

In addition to the spats, Caitlyn really felt her parents’ absence for a different, more pleasant—but also more frustrating—reason. _This is a perfect opportunity to try things with him that I haven’t had the courage to try yet,_ she thought—but the stubborn presence of her younger siblings prevented that. In fact, she thought sourly, Carver kept a far closer eye on them than their father had. They had been able to sneak a lot more kisses in the house with her father there. _He,_ at least, hadn’t oh-so-conveniently burst into the bedroom with an absurd question about dinner or housekeeping or some such. Carver frequently did, and it was thoroughly exasperating after the second time it happened.

“He’s got a lot of bloody nerve,” Anders grumbled after it had happened for the fourth time. “As far as I’m concerned, _you_ are in charge of the household while your parents are gone. You’re the oldest. Who does he think he is?”

Caitlyn glowered. “This is Mother’s fault. He is her favorite, I think because he’s not a mage, but also, there’s something about Kirkwall nobility, I think.... She defers to my father in everything except matters about me and my siblings. I think that in Kirkwall, noble families must defer to men much more than in Ferelden. No offense,” she added, remembering that she was speaking to a man.

Anders had not particularly noticed that, but then again, he had not paid extra attention to anyone except Caitlyn and Malcolm. He did not want to find himself in the middle of a sibling rivalry, or to encourage a daughter’s apparent resentment of her own mother, although he realized that he probably had little choice now about the first. “Well, whatever the reason, he needs to learn his place,” he said hotly, “and that place is not between us.” He glared at the door.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed, pulling him close, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Their legs dangled over the side of her bunk bed as they kissed deeply, leaning backward.

Anders groaned, plunging his tongue into the depths of her cavern, wanting to be even closer. “Maker,” he swore, “I think I....” He trailed off as she broke away from him, emerald eyes wide with apparent awareness of what he had not yet said. He took a deep breath. “I think I’m in love with you.”

She gazed at him in awe and astonishment, lifting her right hand to his cheek gently to touch him. “Really?” she said, surprised at how girlish and unsure she sounded.

He wanted to reassure her, to banish the uncertainty and fear from her. “Really,” he said, pulling her close again. Her eyes fluttered shut as he kissed her again. “I see your parents... that’s what I want. I’ve always wanted it. I didn’t think it was possible for mages, but I know now that it is. And I want it with you.”

She muffled a cry at that and surrendered to the kiss and the affections, wishing it could be more. This was _so_ tempting. It had been almost seven weeks since they had met, and for five of those, they had not moved beyond kissing and comparatively innocent touching. She wanted so much to pull him down in her bed and just... let things run their course. The only way to face her fears was head-on, and she knew that and just wanted to get to it. But with their luck, Carver would burst in with a stupid smug grin on his face and a fake question about what to do with pickled string beans.

Neither of them realized that Bethany was seated in the common room outside the door, not deliberately eavesdropping, but unable to avoid hearing them either.

* * *

“Let’s go to the town,” Bethany insisted later that day. “I want to see if there are any seeds for sale yet.”

Carver gazed at his twin sister in surprise. “It’s the end of Guardian.”

“They would have been harvested last autumn. Some plants need to be planted early.”

“Not _this_ early.”

“Maybe there will be some bargains,” she said desperately, hoping that he would just agree.

“All right,” he said, his voice odd to his ears. “If you don’t mind leaving those two alone....”

“Carver, they’re adults. Get over it. Besides, if they get together, they’ll want to set up a little cabin of their own, I’m sure. You’ll be the oldest then.”

He glowered back at the cottage, but at last, he nodded and led his sister through the woods toward the road that led to Lothering.

* * *

“Your sister thinks she’s so clever,” Anders groused as the twins left for the woods.

“I just hope they don’t run into any more Tainted animals while giving us this time,” Caitlyn fretted.

“They’ll both assume we got up to something when they get back.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “Yes, they will—so if they’ll think that anyway, I want it to be _true,_ at least.”

He gaped at her before bursting into laughter. She laughed ruefully with him. “Cait,” he finally said, holding her in his arms but keeping her just far enough from him that they could see each other’s faces clearly, “I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything. By me or anyone else.”

She caressed his cheek. “I don’t. I want this. I realized that this morning, when you told me... you know. There is one thing, though.” She laughed nervously and cast her gaze down, unable to meet his eyes suddenly. “Anders... you probably realized this already, but... I....” She trailed off.

He tilted her chin up so they could look each other in the eye again. “Let me guess, you’re a virgin.”

She looked down again, nodding, feeling heat creep to her cheeks despite her resolution not to be embarrassed. “It’s not easy for an apostate mage to trust anyone to that extent. If something didn’t work out... well, there are horrible people in the world who would turn a mage in to the Templars as retaliation for a breakup—”

He grimaced, utterly appalled at that idea; it was one that had actually never even occurred to _him_ despite his focus on the plight of mages; but of course, it was a perfectly reasonable thing for her to fear. “Caitlyn. Listen. It _doesn’t matter to me.”_

She finally dared to meet his eyes again. “But I assumed you probably weren’t....”

“I’m not,” he said. “It still doesn’t matter! In fact....” He sighed, pulling his legs fully onto her bunk bed and stretching them out in front of him. “I feel a little guilty—not really about the fact that I’m not, but the _reason_ I’m not. The first day we really talked, when you confronted me about flirting idly with you....”

“Don’t remind me of what I said!” she exclaimed. “I was horrible to you.”

“What you said had a grain of truth to it,” he insisted. “I didn’t sleep with any Circle mages, because I didn’t want to get a girl with child knowing that the Chantry would take the baby away... but that would have been more ‘real’ than the ‘experience’ I do have. When I escaped previously, I went to... well, to the brothel of Denerim.” He felt nervous about saying it, unsure of how she would take that, but feeling it was better to get it out before they had done anything they couldn’t take back. “I didn’t do it _intending_ to be a rake. It seemed more honest than risking breaking someone’s heart. In those days... I didn’t believe I could live the way your family lives, so I didn’t try to find that. I suppose I always expected to be captured, in the back of my mind. And of course, I was.”

“Anders....” Her voice was gentle, sympathy and pity for him written in her face.

“There was one previous partner I didn’t _pay,”_ he said, his lips curling at the word. “A fellow customer, for one night. So— _that’s_ why I’m not a virgin. I’ve never slept with anyone I loved either. I’m sorry. I understand if this changes your mind about me.” He gazed at her, amber eyes pleading with her, but still resigned to a dismissal.

She cupped his cheek again. “Anders. It doesn’t. I _do_ understand. It’s not something I can imagine myself doing, I admit, but... I have lived a very different life, so I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been locked up in the Circle for years. And it actually makes me feel better that you didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

He managed a weak smile.

“I was more worried that you would judge me, that you wouldn’t want to touch me now.”

“There are two reasons I can think of for why a man wouldn’t want a woman for that reason alone,” he declared. “One is if he intended to leave her soon and thought it would hurt her worse. The other is if he expected her to ‘entertain’ him expertly from the very beginning and wouldn’t consider her otherwise.” He placed his hands on her waist, his face suddenly intense and hungry. “Neither of those things is true for us. I promise you, this does _not_ change how much I want you.”

He observed the change as she processed this statement of acceptance and desire. Her eyes darkened as her pupils grew wider with desire. Her breath hitched in her chest. “Please, then,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, but that was all that he needed to hear. He pulled her close again for another fierce kiss, biting her lips lightly, then pushed her back and held her away from him so that they could remove their clothes.

Despite the excitement, desire, and—yes—nervousness threatening to overwhelm her at the moment, she had just enough presence of mind not to throw her clothes to the floor, but to keep them at the foot of the bunk bed. He considered for a moment as she piled them up, then added his. She almost hated to see the feathers go... she did like the way they felt against the sensitive skin of her neck when he held her... but perhaps another time....

“Maker, you’re beautiful,” he burst out as she took off her chemise, leaving nothing on but her smalls and breastband. He stared at her, wanting to touch her smooth skin.

Caitlyn was surprised at how trim he was; it was not what she would have expected for a Circle mage— _but then,_ she thought, _he has escaped many times and traveled far indeed, and he’s been as active as he can be here._ She wanted to touch as well, and unlike him, she didn’t hesitate to reach gently for him, to stroke his chest, to focus on that, to try not to stare from fascination, lust, or _alarm_ as he took off his smallclothes.

She let him take off the wrap around her chest, noting with a certain amount of surprise and pride that _his_ gaze was immediately captured. He had been moving to pull down her smalls, but he stopped and brought his hands back up instead to gently caress her breasts. Her eyes rolled back at the touch, and a sigh escaped her, prompting him to smile in satisfaction.

She didn’t know what made her do it; perhaps it was just instinct, but some deep urge within her made her place her hands on his waist and begin to lean herself back on her pillow, pulling him on top of her. He allowed it for a few seconds until he was draped over her, then paused.

“Cait, love,” he murmured, reaching again for her smalls, “are you sure about this... position? Since it’s your first time, maybe I should get on my back and you can... get on top of me and... take your time. It might not hurt as much if you did that.”

She realized what he was censoring himself from saying. For some reason, the embarrassment that periodically flushed her face over personal revelations was absent now. Perhaps it was because they had now seen almost all of each other’s bodies, but whatever it was, she did not mince words as he had. “I know it’s going to hurt no matter what, and if I did that, I’m not sure I would be able to let you move once you were all the way inside me.”

He hissed and twitched at her bald words, his pupils widening, making his eyes grow dark with desire. “Maker damn it, Caitlyn.”

“I also wouldn’t know what I was doing,” she continued, responding to his outburst with only a smirk. “Please. I want you to do it.” All traces of amusement left her face at this. “You’re a Healer. If it hurts, you can fix it. I want you to lead. I trust you.”

Anders stared, transfixed by her words, then suddenly moved forward to whisper something in her ear, keeping his hands on her hips the whole time. He felt her flush at his question.

She pulled back, staring at him, shocked at what he had asked. “I might have,” she said defiantly. “I just might have.”

“Recently?”

“While thinking about you in this bed at night, you mean?” she said baldly, noting with triumph that he was surprised by her turnabout. “Perhaps.” She smirked back at him. “You think you can do it better?”

“Oh, yes.” _Most definitely,_ he thought smugly. With that, he pulled off her smallclothes with a flourish, then trailed a single hand down her sensitive skin, letting his fingers linger momentarily in the triangle of red curls before sliding them into her center. His eyes widened. “You _do_ want me,” he remarked, fingers sliding down her folds. He paused for a moment. _Anything to make this easier for her,_ he thought, dipping a single finger into her.

She closed her eyes again at the sensation, uttering a breathy moan. He took that as encouragement and gently slid a second finger inside, moving them back and forth. “That’s nice,” she managed to moan. “That feels so good....”

Encouraged, he slipped a third finger inside. She was beginning to stretch now—but that was just as well. Her eyes widened in surprise at the feeling, but she didn’t complain. He lifted his thumb to her pearl, eliciting a shudder of surprise and pleasure from her, then quickened his movements, keeping pace with the rate of her breathing. He did not want her to reach climax just yet, but there was one more thing he wanted to do before he pulled back from this. Hiding the smirk that wanted to form on his face, he summoned a small burst of magic and pulsed shocks from his fingers in both places.

“Holy Maker.” She gasped in surprise at him, feeling the slight tingle of aftershock. “Was that—a spell?” she breathed.

“It was,” he said with a laugh, withdrawing his hand and trailing it back up her body, leaving a streak.

“You... really _are_ good at electricity magic,” she gasped as her chest continued to heave, staring at him in awe, smiling from under hooded eyes.

“I am sure we’ll have many occasions for me to do it,” Anders purred, stroking her side with the hand that was still dry. She moaned again at his touch, and for a moment, he felt bad about the fact that he was about to hurt her. _I’m a Healer,_ he reminded himself, remembering what she had said, taking a deep breath to ready himself. A smile formed on her face, and she draped her arms around his shoulders, gazing adoringly at him. For that moment, he relished the sight, the loving gaze of a woman he cared for, with whom he wanted a future... a sight as new to him as this experience was to her.

But in the next moment, she tensed when she felt his tip at her core, her body stiffening underneath him, her breath tight in her chest. He felt bad about that; that wasn’t going to help her... but he was hard as a rock and could not wait much longer, and he wasn’t sure what could relax her if what he had done so far hadn’t. They just needed to _do_ it, he thought. He held her waist as gently as he could and thrust forward, feeling another pang of guilt at the momentary physical resistance he broke through and the accompanying cry from her that was not one of pleasure.

Her arms left his shoulders; she grabbed fistfuls of mattress cover on either side and gritted her teeth, silently urging him to continue—which he did as slowly as he could stand. He wasn’t sure what to think of this—she was a beautiful sight, red hair lying in wavy locks all over her pillow, her gaze fixed on his and set resolutely, determined to take this because she knew that it was supposed to get better—but it _was_ hurting her. She was so wet from his earlier ministrations that it was all he could do not to push in her to the hilt with one movement, but he had just enough self-control not to do that. She didn’t burst out with a plea to stop, a fact that he noted in the back of his mind in wonder. He didn’t really want to see the change in her face as he moved deeper, the widening of her eyes and pained grimace of her mouth, but neither did he want to break her gaze. She fisted the sheets tighter, her eyes finally closing as an oath escaped her lips at last.

He was not fully inside her, but this was too much for him. He had to ease her pain so that she could enjoy this. He _wanted_ her to enjoy this. Moving his hands from her waist a little bit down, he rested his palms in the heated spot where their bodies were joined and cast a powerful burst of healing magic. Her eyes fluttered open, wide and shocked.

“Is that better?” he said. “Can I...?”

“It doesn’t hurt at all now,” Caitlyn gasped in amazement. She arched up, taking in another inch on her own, to his surprise, and her arms found their way back around him. She moved her legs farther apart, and he _felt_ her relax.

_Well, then,_ he thought. She was still extremely wet with desire, and she seemed able to take all that he longed to give her now—so he breathed deeply, staring at her green eyes, and filled her completely.

Those emerald orbs widened for a moment, making his heart thump oddly at the sight, and a gasp escaped her—but this was a good one, a gasp of pleasure, and she wriggled a bit underneath him to somehow impale herself even deeper on him. There was a sudden surge of heat on his back where her hands rested, and he realized that she had a hint of her signature flames at her fingertips—not painful, not burning, but definitely there. That was it for him; he couldn’t stay still. He gazed back at her for a moment, letting his hand trail a series of mild sparks down her side, and began to move.

A hiss escaped her as his movements quickly became a delightful, easy friction deep within her, much to her surprise after how it had begun—but that memory was already fading rapidly. This was what she had hoped for, imagined in her nights alone in this bed, and more. She felt unutterably close to him in this moment—and with that thought, she dug her fingers deeper into his back and arched up in tandem with his thrust, slamming them together at once, feeling him hitting her in a place deep inside that she hadn’t even known she had, but that sent a deep, shuddering thrum through her body.

Anders groaned, pulsing another spark into her, and leaned over to nip the side of her neck. She was struggling underneath him now, trembling erratically, very close to completion. It was driving him wild to watch. The change in angle and the gentle bite brought her to the very brink. On a sudden impulse, he brought one hand between her legs where they were joined and sent a spark into her.

She flung her arms away from his back, but the motion seemed involuntary—and as the climax rocked her and brought him close to his own, he felt them slam back around him, nails digging—

A flash of scorching heat pulsed into his back from her fingertips, the sensation and the realization of what it was sending him over the edge. Another moan fell from his lips as he released in her, pushing her into her mattress, grabbing her shoulders almost roughly. As they rode it out together, he let his fingers trail up her neck and settle in her hair once again, cradling her head as he buried his own in the sensitive spot where her neck and left shoulder joined.

At some point they both realized that they’d better get themselves dressed and presentable, though they did not really want to separate. He kissed her again, and she hugged him in return. “That was wonderful,” she praised, eyes alight.

“Yes... it was,” he agreed, not just to please her, but because it was true. He wouldn’t have expected it, but that was actually the best he’d ever had, he realized in wonder, holding her as he helped her into her clothes. She chuckled in mild embarrassment as the inside of her smalls instantly became slick with their combined juices... and a thought occurred to him. _I could get her with child now that our relationship is at this stage. I might already have. I highly doubt her mother takes the herbal potion at her age, so it won’t be around the house, and it’s winter, so I cannot get the ingredients._ He pulled his robe back on, thinking, finally resolving that he would ask her bluntly about her cycle next time—he was a Healer and did not mind the topic—and base their decisions on that while the ground remained cold and devoid of living herbs. _And if it’s too late already, then so be it,_ he thought. That was scary and intimidating, but... the Hawkes wouldn’t turn him out. _If anything,_ he thought, _they would make me stay._

For the first time in his life, he didn’t mind the thought of being made to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She’s actually not—yet—but no, the rhythm method is not nearly sufficient, and he knows that as a Healer. This is willful self-delusion, combined with not really minding the idea.
> 
> I didn’t want any of Anders’ dalliances to occur _after_ he met Hawke in this AU, because of everything that has happened (and will happen). My vision for this AU is that his priority in future escapes will be to get back to Lothering, not to snag hookups, and he will be so devastated at what he finds in Lothering when he finally gets there that he couldn’t possibly do that then. He _will_ have a relationship with Karl, but that’s different; that’s meaningful, and he is locked up in the Circle when it happens, not free to look for Caitlyn—but it will be fraught enough in its own right.
> 
> Hawke’s hair is going to be a continual minor theme through this “prequel” part. Right now, Anders is becoming deeply associated in her mind with her hair as it currently is, even more so after the next chapter. You can figure out where that’s leading.


	4. The Sun Seemed Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s title is a lyric from “Fiddler on the Green” by Demons and Wizards on their self-titled album.
> 
> There’s some more NSFW content in this chapter! I wanted to give them everything I can before I shatter their bliss and leave them with PTSD and a whole book of issues to work out.

When the twins returned home, Caitlyn and Anders were standing by a window in the common room, fully clothed. They were talking in low voices. She stood extremely close to him as he presented her with something. Bethany’s eyes widened in amazement and she quickly ducked away into the bedroom—but she need not have worried too much, because the gift was not what she thought. Carver gave them a silent sneer and otherwise ignored them.

Vaguely aware that the twins had returned, but paying them little attention, Caitlyn examined the object Anders had just given her. It was a hairpin, but he had tied and glued a strip of brown leather to the top of it and attached three feathers and a brass button to the leather strip, to resemble the elements of his coat. She quickly looked up and down his coat, but it didn’t appear to be missing any buttons or have any pieces of leather cut out....

“It was a spare button sewn inside. Same for the leather,” he said. “I hated using ‘scrap’ materials, but....”

“Of course you wouldn’t want your coat to look battered,” she said, smiling as she touched his chest. “I’m not offended. Using every bit of leftover materials is what we’ve done our whole lives.” She turned around, presenting the back of her head to him. “Would you?”

“You just want me to do your hair,” he said, but he was smirking too as he parted it.

“You gave me a _decorated hairpin,”_ she said. “It’s implicit. Almost _explicit.”_

He attached the ornament and smoothed the red locks. “There you are. They’ll all know you’re mine now.” He leaned over and nipped her on the side of her neck.

She felt her face flush at his words and the love bite. When he had drawn away, she turned back around to look at him. Her face was playful and challenging. “Is that so? Then I already was, before... today.”

“I didn’t say you only became so today.”

“And I’ll have to find some way of declaring whom _you_ belong to.” She touched his left cheek, making him yelp—for her fingertips burned with suppressed flames once again. Smirking, she returned to her bedroom, an idea already in her mind.

* * *

Bethany did not ask her sister anything, but she seemed to know that the two mages had taken advantage of their privacy. She gazed at the ornament in her sister’s hair. “That’s... interesting,” she remarked.

“You don’t like it?” Caitlyn said, rummaging through a chest.

“It looks better in your hair than it would in mine,” she said with a gentle smile. “The browns and the gold of the brass button go well with your hair. He made it?”

“He must have, unless Father was in on this in secret. But he didn’t say anything about that.”

“What are you looking for?” Bethany asked, coming over.

“The dye,” Caitlyn said, scowling. “I thought you had it last. Did Mother...?”

“I did have it last.” Bethany opened up a bag that contained her knitting and embroidery supplies. “Which color do you want?”

“Red and yellow.”

Bethany picked out the two small jars of powder and handed them to her sister. “You’re making something orange for him?”

“I’m dyeing a handkerchief. He associates me with fire.”

Keeping a perfect elemental balance, she cast frost with one hand and fire with the other, creating a drip of water into a bucket. It might not be grand and showy like the Circles taught, but Anders had been impressed with all the ways that the Hawkes could use magic at controlled, regulated levels to do everyday tasks. He had offered the opinion, and she had agreed, that the Circles didn’t teach that because that would give the mages more self-confidence in their ability to survive outside.

Bethany watched in interest as her sister rolled up her sleeves and began to dye one of her white handkerchiefs. She was the crafty one of the siblings, and she half expected her older sister to ask her for assistance, but Caitlyn seemed to have a plan, and it was an interesting one. She was dipping different sections of the cloth in the dye, holding it there for varying amounts of time, twisting and balling up the fabric, to get a vividly multicolored effect like real fire. At last she seemed satisfied with her handiwork.

That evening, after it was dried and the dye set, she came up to him, her face deliberately serious.

“Are you offering me your favor now?” he said, noting that she had something in her hands.

She huffed. “I am declaring you mine, you mean. You’ll wear this to show that.” She presented him with a small parcel.

He unwrapped it to reveal the dyed cloth. His eyes widened, all trace of cockiness gone. “It’s lovely,” he remarked, holding it up to see the colors. “I almost don’t want to....”

“It looks fine tied around your arm,” she reassured him, taking it from his hands and wrapping it around his left upper arm, making sure the diagonal was in the center so that she could get the most fabric to work with. She tied it in a loose knot and stepped back. “There you are,” she said, echoing his words from earlier. The handkerchief was a vivid flame against the muted neutrals of his coat.

“This makes me want to lose my supper,” came a sarcastic male voice from the corner. “Can’t you take it somewhere else? At least get out of here if you’re about to start the touchy and slobbery parts?”

“Shut up, Carver,” Caitlyn said cheerfully. She had not actually intended it, but with a provocation like that, of course she was going to nestle herself in Anders’ arms in front of her brother. He didn’t have to tell her in words, but he completely agreed with her reasoning and promptly obliged.

* * *

After that, Carver was resolutely against leaving the house with Bethany again. Caitlyn did not appreciate that her brother seemed to have appointed himself as her guard, especially since she was an adult and he was not. As the days to their parents’ expected return dwindled, she found herself very hungry for another taste and inclined to say to the Void with it and take Anders while Carver was around. Not Bethany, she assured herself. Her little sister didn’t have a problem with the relationship, and she had no interest in making _her_ uncomfortable. But Carver... yes, a growing part of Caitlyn rather wanted to give her little brother an eyeful to serve him right.

 _It’s not fair to use somebody that way,_ she thought. If she was deliberately going to risk being seen, Anders deserved to know so that he could decide whether he wanted to be in on it.

She needn’t have worried. As soon as she broached the idea to him—not to _taunt_ Carver, but not to bother taking extra privacy precautions either, and if Carver did see or hear more than he would have liked, it served him right—he laughed wickedly and said he was in.

They waited until Bethany had gone out to do some early-spring garden work, breaking up the soil and planting some of the seeds that she had indeed procured in Lothering that day. The vagaries of Fereldan winter had left them with a warm spell. It was good for traveling, too, which would help their parents—but Caitlyn noticed a tension in Anders’ features. Being cooped up indoors in frostbite-cold winter was one thing; this was different. _And at some point, the situation with his phylactery will have to be resolved,_ she thought, though it was an unpleasant feeling, something that left a pool of dread in her gut.

She banished that at once and turned to him. In his usual dark corner, Carver was fletching arrows for his bow, clearly dissatisfied with this weapon and wanting to train with something else—a greatsword, apparently. He glowered at his sister and Anders but said nothing.

Caitlyn reached for Anders’ hand and began to rub circles on his palm with her thumb. He hitched his breath and turned to her questioningly. She smirked back. It was all that he needed. He gripped her hand in his and pulled her close, not into an actual embrace, but standing very near.

Carver scowled. “I’m right here, you know.”

“All right,” she replied with a dramatic shrug, then began to lead Anders into the little room she shared with Bethany. Carver gaped in astonishment at their brazenness, but he did not move to stop them. _That could be revenge enough,_ Caitlyn thought smugly as she pulled the door closed.

They quickly ascended the ladder that led to her bunk and collapsed on the mattress together almost immediately, her tumbling on top of him as he fell onto his back. This was only the second time they had even done that much, but somehow it already felt familiar. One of his arms snaked around her waist, holding her in place, as his other hand worked at her indoor clothing. She laughed and began to undo the fasteners on his coat. The flame-dyed handkerchief that she had given him was loose enough around his arm that she did not have to remove it to get the coat off, and he could slip his arm through the sleeve again when he put his coat back on. He released the arm that was around her waist, and she set it gently at the foot of the bed. Then he pulled her back down.

The desire to get revenge on a nosy sibling was rapidly fading as they cuddled and kissed, removing their clothing gradually. Instead, she found herself just wanting him. He gently pulled the hairpin out of her locks and set it aside with one hand, keeping the other on the back of her head, cradling her as he descended upon the side of her face and neck with a barrage of quick but intense kisses. Several of them were bites.

“You’re trying to mark me,” she murmured, mildly in protest.

“I can heal them if you don’t want them to show.”

“I may insist on that.”

He pulled back and gazed at her. He was still in his tunic and breeches, and although he had opened up her top all the way down to her waist, she was also otherwise fully clothed. “If you don’t mind...” he murmured, snaking a hand up her chest, “I think we should stay clothed.”

Her face fell as she misunderstood his meaning.

“Oh, no,” he said, pinching one of her nipples and enjoying watching her nostrils flare as she took in her breath sharply. “I meant—here’s what I meant.” He slipped his thumbs into the waistline of his breeches and pulled them down under the covers, then pulled up her skirt and removed her smalls.

 _“Oh,”_ she said. That... made sense. It would be faster to get themselves back in order this way... and there was a certain thrill at the idea of this being necessary, part of a quick furtive coupling that they had managed to steal....

In keeping with that idea, Anders was pleased to discover, fingertips ghosting her core, that she was more than ready and he didn’t need to arouse her. He did want to show her what he could do with his tongue, but that would be for a more leisurely, relaxed occasion. For this one, this time, neither of them minded a bit when he thrust himself into her without teasing, touching, or prelude while they remained clothed from the waist up.

It was quick, intense, and almost rough. She tugged on his hair to hold him in place and kept her muscles clenched around his cock like she was trying to drink every possible bit of pleasure from him in the shortest amount of time she could; his hands supplied a crushing grip to her hips as he hammered her repeatedly to do the same with her. They could not burst out any oaths or each other’s names; they could not moan or, Maker forbid, scream. They could just breathe heavily and whisper—hiss, really—sharp declarations of urgent desire and praise at each other.

The intensity and forced suppression of their more satiating outbursts brought them to completion very quickly, even him. But they had only a minute of being able to enjoy the feel of post-coital closeness and the heavy, rapid pulsing of each other’s heart mere inches away from their own before they heard the door to the cabin open and then shut.

* * *

Caitlyn scrambled for her smalls and managed to get them on as she descended from the ladder, but Anders had no time between letting her get out from under him and reaching for his coat. He gave her a desperate look and threw the quilt over his head as he pressed against the wall, pretending to be just part of a rumpled, unmade bed as Bethany entered the room.

 _Carver knew we were in here!_ Caitlyn thought in utter fury as her little sister greeted her and walked over to sit down in her favorite chair. _He let her come in here knowing that!_

“How was gardening?” she asked her little sister, attempting to sound normal.

Bethany glanced up from the embroidery hoop she had taken out. “Easier than it should have been. It’s very odd that the weather is so warm in Drakonis, especially after that ghastly blizzard we had in Wintermarch.”

“There will probably be more snow before spring truly begins.”

“Most likely.” She glanced up at the top bunk, her eyebrows knitting in confusion at the disorder that she was sure had not been there all day, but only momentarily. She met her sister’s gaze again, eyebrows raised in surprise. “I know you’re up there, Anders. You can come down.”

Her older sister turned as red as a strawberry. Mortified, Anders emerged from the top bunk, clutching his coat to his chest and holding Caitlyn’s hair ornament in one hand. Attempting to muster some semblance of dignity, he turned to her, studiously avoiding the other sister’s gaze, and attached the hairpin to her head once again. He pulled his coat on and adjusted the handkerchief on his sleeve.

“We, uh... nothing happened,” Anders brazenly lied to Bethany. “Just cuddling.” Caitlyn had to give him credit for the lie; sometimes a plausible lie worked very well indeed.

Bethany shrugged. “It’s nothing to me _what_ you do as long as it doesn’t occur in my bunk.”

He laughed. “Well, I can offer you positive assurance that it never will.” He took Caitlyn’s hand and walked with her out of the room to smirk triumphantly at Carver.

Only after they had settled into a single large chair to read magic books together, her practically seated in his lap, did he realize that he had again neglected to ask her about her fertility. He would have to remember to do it next time.

* * *

Unfortunately for the couple, they did not have a “next time” before Malcolm and Leandra returned from Denerim. She had a bundle of purchases in her arm, mostly fabrics from the market to make new clothes for everyone, but also a couple of books from the Wonders of Thedas, the shop for mages. Malcolm’s face was grave and his brow furrowed with thought, but he did not seem to be in a panic about whatever he had learned from Warden-Commander Duncan. His sharp gaze quickly noted the flaming orange decoration on Anders’ coat and then the ornament in his daughter’s hair that was meant to resemble the elements of that same coat. He nodded knowingly at them, pleased that their relationship was progressing. _If only I can help them,_ he thought. _I’m meant to help them.... We speak of fathers “giving their daughters away,” but that’s not what this would be. They shouldn’t settle far from this house, and I don’t think he even wants to. He sees me as a mentor. This feels more like making a gift of him, for her, by procuring his freedom. I just hope I can do it._

Taking a deep breath, he gathered the family and sat down with them at the table. “I see the house is still standing, and no signs of fresh burns or bloodstains anywhere,” he said. “So, good on you. As you have seen, we had a productive trip—but I’m sure you all want to know what the Wardens had to say to us.” He stretched his arms across the tabletop, hands clasped together. “The news is good—for now. Duncan told us, in confidence, that the Wardens _do_ expect a Blight sometime over the next decade, that they’ve had signs on occasion for the past twenty years.”

“What kind of signs?” Carver asked.

“He wouldn’t tell me that. The Wardens have their secrets and he wouldn’t share that much with me about the specifics of these ‘signs.’ But he did say that the Tainted creatures we’ve seen here are the gravest sign ‘on the surface’ that he has seen yet, which tells me that whatever the Wardens know that they didn’t tell us, it’s in the Deep Roads.” He accepted a cup of cider from Bethany, sipped it, and continued. “He says that we need to remain on our guard, but not to assume that the beasts are actually _from_ the Lothering area at all, especially if there have been no signs of darkspawn themselves at the surface near here. A Blight could begin anywhere, he said, and we’re better off staying put until the Wardens know more. And there is one more thing.” He gazed at his children and Anders sternly. “You are not to repeat what you’ve just heard to _anyone._ I mean it. It could begin a panic—and it would result in either the loss of this correspondence relationship that I have with the Fereldan Wardens, or possibly even my conscription into the order.”

“You have my word,” Caitlyn said at once. Her siblings and Anders promised in quick succession.

He nodded, satisfied. “Between us... I do wonder if we should move anyway. If it’s time for it. Or if it’ll _be_ time for it after I settle the business with your phylactery, Anders,” he said.

Anders’ eyes widened. “I would hate for your family to be uprooted over that,” he burst out.

“We’ll do what we must. My daughter cares about you, and frankly, so do I. I want this for both of you. And it may not be necessary to move,” said Malcolm. “I’ve been thinking about how to do it, and if we can bait a few Templars to hunt for you with the object actually on their persons—which they’d have to do, to know where to focus a search—then we could just... knock them out, put them to sleep, get the thing, and leave before they wake up. I don’t want to shed blood. They’re just doing their job. But that doesn’t mean that I want them to _succeed_ at their job,” he said with a grin.

Anders smirked. He _certainly_ didn’t want Templars to succeed at their job of capturing apostates, and Malcolm’s idea—if it could actually work—would be a way to secure his freedom, his future, with a minimum of violence and disruption.

* * *

With the parents back at home, opportunities for the pair to explore the physical aspect of their relationship became even fewer, much to their mutual frustration. The warm springlike spell continued, a temptation that grew stronger by the day.

“I’ve been free of the Circle for two months,” Anders finally said. “In all this time, they shouldn’t have been able to get one signal from my phylactery since the blizzard early in Wintermarch.”

“Except for the time that you went out to help us kill the bereskarn,” Caitlyn pointed out.

“That was very brief. What are the odds? They have every reason to think I’m dead now. None of my escapes have ever lasted this long before, not even close. I think it’s safe to go out, and it’s practically spring. We should enjoy it while it lasts.”

When she still seemed unconvinced, he took her face in his hands and gave her a pleading look. “They won’t suddenly appear in the woods anyway. If some Templar at Kinloch Hold does happen to be holding my phylactery while I’m outside, it will just show that I went south. It won’t show them ‘Lothering.’ And then I’ll go back inside the house soon, and it’ll go dark again. Besides, if your father’s plan is to work, we have to bait the Templars anyway.”

She sighed. His argument did make sense, and she did have an urge that needed to be sated... and it _wasn’t_ fair to lock him up while the weather was so beautiful and balmy. She rose from the table, took his hand, and led him out the door hand-in-hand. Walking through the ward’s protection seemed a momentous act.

She led him just inside the boundary of the tree line, noting that some of the deciduous trees had tiny buds and pale green leaflets at the tips of their branches. It happened that way some years, but this was far too early for a lasting bloom. Those buds, those leaves, would be killed by a freeze. It made her feel bad for a moment, and then suddenly, inexplicably, panicked... _but no,_ she reassured herself as she led him to a large fir tree that she had liked for years. _This is nice now. Even if it’s just the illusion of spring, and every one of those buds will be nipped, it is still warm right now, and I should enjoy it now, while it lasts._

He gazed up at the tree. It was bushy enough to conceal them well indeed. He pulled her close and collapsed to the ground with her, holding her as they both crouched on their knees. She closed her eyes and let him tilt her head back, exposing her neck for kisses and gentle bites.

He had just enough awareness left to remember his promise to himself. “Cait,” he gasped out, pulling away from her even though he didn’t want to. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

She looked at him, brows quirked, waiting and hoping it would be a quick discussion.

He took a deep breath. “Your... monthly cycle.”

She gazed levelly at him. “I’m not having that right now,” she said in even tones. “Do you think I’d expect you to deal with that, really?”

“Outside? Why not? What would it matter?” he shrugged as her green eyes widened in utter shock.

“But I thought men....”

“Maybe some, but it makes no difference to me. I’m a Healer; it doesn’t bother me. But that’s not what I was asking. We need to start being more careful. Unless you can get the herbs to make the potion to prevent a pregnancy... or... unless you don’t _mind....”_

She leaned back, thinking. “I _don’t_ think I would mind, actually, but that does not mean I want to _invite_ that to happen right now. So much is unsettled yet.”

“That’s exactly how I see it.”

She seemed to be counting in her head, her eyes gazing upward. Then she lowered her gaze to him once again. “All right. It might be a bad idea right now. Our first time was just after I’d... finished. It’s about two weeks later.”

He frowned deeply in concern. “The second time, then... well, never mind; no point in speculating when we can know. If I may?” He lifted a hand, a medical diagnostic spell glowing at his fingertips. She nodded, suddenly fearful, as he plunged it under her tunic, but not as a lover now. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Nothing.”

She let out her breath.

“That means that this is a great opportunity to try something _else,_ though,” he said, a wicked smile appearing on his face again. He reached for the buttons on her robe, deliberately, slowly unbuttoning each one as she lay down on the bed of dried grass and leaves. Before long, her robes lay beneath her nude form.

“You’re still dressed,” she said.

“That won’t be a problem.” Anders gazed greedily at her for another second, breathing heavily as if he could inhale her very essence with it, before lifting up her legs and throwing them over his shoulders as he got on his knees.

He plunged his mouth into her core as she muffled a cry, nuzzling against her most sensitive spot with his nose and teasing her entrance with his tongue. She was so wet already and he lapped it up, drinking in her taste, feeling himself start to grow hard at the thought that this was all, every bit, for him. Maker, but he wanted her. Freedom was an idea; this— _she—_ was a reality that gave that idea a potency that surprised even him, though he had thought before meeting the Hawkes that he couldn’t possibly want it any more than he already had. She was the _reason_ why he longed for it so much now. He wanted _this._ He wanted her. And with that thought, he thrust his tongue into her passage and brought a hand between her splayed legs to press against her pearl, bringing another cry to her lips.

He wanted to draw this out, to make her feel wave after wave, but she was so unused to anything like this that his intense ministrations sent her over the edge quickly, leaving her shaking in his grasp, her legs clamped around his head and trembling, her hands holding his face in place as she tugged on his hair hard enough that it hurt.

She finally let him go, relieving that pressure, and gaped at him. “I’m sorry,” she said at once. “I must have pulled too hard....”

“No harm done,” he said smoothly, grinning as he licked his lips and tried to clean his face with his fingers.

She gazed, transfixed, and managed to sit upright as the last shuddering breaths escaped her. Her gaze traveled down his form, fixing upon the large visible bulge below his waist. _Now what,_ she thought. _I should do something for him, but I don’t know how._ “Well,” she said, fumbling for words, “I, er, want to make you feel that now. But you’ll have to guide me.”

He finished licking his fingers clean of her feminine juices and wiggled a single finger at her, silently urging her come closer. She crawled across her robes to him, looking expectantly at him.

He hadn’t intended to ask this of her; he knew he could take care of it with his own hands and had thought that perhaps she might like to watch that, but if she _wanted_ to, he certainly had no objections. Without a word, he loosened his trousers and drew out his erection. Her eyes widened for a brief instant, but a grin formed on her face as she apparently remembered that she knew for a fact she could handle it. He guided her hand to the base of his cock and, keeping her wrist gently in his grip, brought her slender fingers up his shaft. Her green eyes widened as he sucked in his breath in pleasure.

Instinctively she formed a grip, but a loose one, and gave him one final inquiring glance, brows raised. He breathed deeply. That felt really good... but those eyes, that mouth—he hoped she would not blast him with a spell for it, but he _had_ to feel her mouth on him. He drew another breath, threading his fingers into the hair on the back of her head, and pushed her down until her lips were right above the tip. “Lick me,” he ordered. “Suck me. Don’t worry about doing it ‘right.’ I just want your mouth on me, _now.”_

Caitlyn was stunned at his commanding tone, but it was deeply satisfying to her. If she had not just experienced a shattering climax, it would have brought her to intense arousal, but instead it somehow deepened the feeling of completion that still suffused her body. And the fact that he would be pleased just by her touch... well, that was all the encouragement she required to conquer her uncertainty about whether she could match what he had just done for her. She first licked his tip hesitantly with her tongue, then when he tensed and groaned, she began to lick stripes up and down, occasionally bringing a hand in the opposite direction from her tongue when she noticed that he groaned especially loudly at that, his hands fisting her hair all the while.

When he was tensing and shaking himself, she finally decided to take his tip into her mouth. He shuddered at the new sensation. “Do you—you know I’m about to—”

She briefly pulled back, staring up at him as he groaned again from the sudden loss of contact. “Give it to me,” she said, her tone just as commanding as his had been earlier. Then, with a smile, she descended on him again. He threw his head back as her lips enveloped his tip once more, shoving her head even lower, forcing her to take in more, the light friction of her mouth against his sensitive skin bringing him so, so close—she gave him another lick, her tongue never leaving her mouth—and with that, his head fell forward as if of its own accord, a gasp escaping his lips as he emptied himself. She seemed startled at first but did not draw back, flinch, or lose a single drop. As he came partially back to himself, he was enthralled at the sight of her bent over him, swallowing every last bit for him.

At last they were sated and re-energized, and he helped her back into her clothing as they got to their wobbly feet. He hugged her close. “That was fantastic,” he assured her.

“I could tell.” Her tone was cocky and bold, the way he liked to hear her, and he chuckled as he brushed twigs off her back. “You were fantastic too. I’ve known about that, of course, but somehow it never seemed like something I’d want to do, or have done.” She shook her head in disbelief at the silliness of her younger self. “What did I know?”

* * *

That was not the first time that they took advantage of the warm weather—though they did not _only_ go outside for that purpose. Another day in the latter half of Drakonis, they found themselves sitting behind that same tree, talking.

“You have so much to say about the bad parts of Circle life.”

“The only good part is the ability to make friends with other mages,” he declared. “The only good part that I couldn’t have outside the Circle, at least. Your father... your family... the training, the knowledge, all of that, you and your sister got without being torn from your family and locked up.”

“Have you ever thought about fighting for mages in some way?” she asked him.

He smiled wryly. “Oh, I have _thought_ about it, but ultimately... so many mages seem content with their restricted lives in the Circle. How can I make them care if those conditions don’t? Why fight for people who don’t even believe that there is anything they need to fight _for?_ And I guess what I want more than anything else is selfish. I want what was _taken_ from me when I was twelve.” He pecked her on the cheek. “I’m finding that here.”

“I guess just being in a family with several mages is a rebellion in its own right.”

“It very much is,” he assured her. “I think the reason they don’t want mages to have any family contact at all, even with parents who _want_ to correspond... why they won’t let Circle mage women even nurse their own babies or keep them... is because it’ll make us think, maybe we deserve even more than that.” He made a fist, and small bolt of lightning crackled from it. “If we can have _any_ family contact, maybe we should have _this.”_ He gestured back at the Hawke cabin. “Maybe we can _belong_ to someone other than _them._ They want us dependent on them for literally everything, food, shelter, clothing, every scrap of affection we receive in life.”

She chuckled and leaned into him. “You belong to me?”

“Don’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose you do.” She lowered his head into her lap and tousled his hair. “I found you, after all. I suppose that does make it so.”

“I could say that I found you.”

“You did.”

* * *

Drakonis turned to Cloudreach, and Anders became much more at ease going outside. Surely if the Templars were still trying to find him, they would have detected enough signals from the south that they would have tried to seek him in earnest. The Hawkes were still awaiting a final freeze, but it did not seem to be coming.

“Look at that,” Caitlyn pointed at the horizon one day. “That’s an actual thunderstorm cloud. What a strange winter it was, that massive blizzard but no last late-season frost.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Anders said. He scanned the cloud. “I always liked it when those came to Kinloch Hold. Made for a little rare excitement to see the windows rattle and natural lightning to strike.”

“Did lightning ever strike the tower?”

“Oh, yes. The first time it happened, I was thirteen, and it was the best moment of my life since I’d been taken away. No, it was,” he insisted as she gazed skeptically at him, sure that he was having her on. “The bookcases all shook, lots of things fell to the floor all over the place... but I wasn’t frightened at all. It was exciting, and it seemed like the Maker Himself smiting that damned tower in disapproval of how we were treated. It was great.” He grinned fondly at the memory. “I decided then that I was absolutely going to learn how to produce amazing lightning with my own magic. I’d discovered that I was good at healing, but I knew then what else I wanted to do as a ‘signature’ spell.”

She shook her head in amazement. “I think I just naturally had an affinity for fire. It was not a conscious choice to make it my default.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t, for you.” He touched the vivid handkerchief that he wore on his sleeve.

They stopped in a clearing atop a small hill and sat down on the ground, watching the storm expend itself in the distance. She turned to him, gazing deeply into his eyes, as she brought a hand to his cheek.

This was becoming familiar to them now with practice, as they had taken every opportunity that presented itself over the past month. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into a crushing kiss as he lowered her to the ground. Their clothes were off, covering the ground, when he remembered the calendar. It was about a week since her last cycle....

She gripped his waist with both hands and rolled him on top of her. _To the Void with it,_ he thought, dismissing the concern in the sudden heat of the moment.

* * *

When they returned to the house, Malcolm took Anders aside. The young mage tensed, suddenly concerned that Malcolm had at last deduced exactly what he and Caitlyn did on many occasions outside, and that he was rather less accepting of it than Anders had convinced himself.

“You’ve been spending a great deal of time outdoors,” Malcolm began. “I don’t blame you; the weather has been beautiful, but I’m becoming a bit concerned. We do want to bait the Templars here, but I don’t want them literally at my doorstep. The idea is to keep _my_ existence and identity a secret.”

Anders almost breathed a sigh of relief. So _that_ was it. “Well, it will be difficult,” he admitted, “but I’ll try to be more... judicious.”

“You want to be alone with Caitlyn,” Malcolm stated, noting with amusement that the younger mage’s face flushed faintly for a second. “I understand that. My wife and I remember what that was like, and we’ve decided to do something about it.” He gestured at the ceiling. Carver’s loft was unchanged, but a separate area right next to it that had heretofore been used for storage was now cleared. The wall between the two loft partitions remained, affording them visual privacy and some amount of auditory as well. They could have almost total visual privacy with a bed shoved into the darkest far corner and a screen mounted in front of it. A second ladder now led to the new loft. “It’s not perfect, but we thought....”

Anders was grinning. “I would appreciate that even if there were nothing between us,” he said. “I could have helped move those boxes that used to be there....”

“Carver did while you were out. He was more than happy to, as he put it, ‘not to have to look at you first thing when climbing down the ladder in the morning,’” Malcolm said.

“I’m sure he was.”

Malcolm patted Anders’ shoulder. “He’ll get used to you. Whether he admits it or not—whether you can believe this yet or not—he’s protective of both of his sisters because they are mages. He and Caitlyn fight like cats and dogs, but it would kill him for either of them to be taken away from the family.”

“Does he see me as a danger to her, then, in that specific way?”

“I think he does. This should get better once that’s no longer a concern.”

Anders realized two things after that conversation: Malcolm had spoken with the assumption that he would be a permanent part of their lives, and Anders himself had not disputed that or even _noticed_ it in his own mind.

* * *

Bethany did not say a word over the next few days if her older sister emerged somewhat sheepishly into their bedroom very late at night. As backward as Caitlyn knew it had to be, she felt incredibly aroused about making love in the dark. Until this point, it had always been in daylight, because he had slept in the common room in front of the hearth, and Bethany had always been a presence in her bedroom at night. But when she first ascended that ladder and climbed into the bed surrounded by darkness, able only to feel his touch, hear his whispered words, and—if they were really bold—have very faint illumination from magic, she felt such excitement as she had not yet known. There was something very primal about the dark.

And then, after the initial sweet occasion, he had taken her hard in the dark, shoving her into the spot where the sloping roof connected with the loft floor, as far from the overlook and the privacy screen as they could be, leaving her with no space to wriggle away, making her take the full sensation of everything. He had illuminated the scene with only a very faint glow from the globe at the end of his staff. Outside, a rainstorm battered the house, and Caitlyn recalled what he had told her that day about the thunderstorms at the Circle tower. She was accustomed to hearing the rain loudly from sleeping in the top bunk, but to know that rain lashed the roof merely inches from where he was pressing her, to actually _feel_ every gust of wind and cloudburst through the building, heightened the _other_ sensations, the ones he was giving her. She was ready to ask him, to beg him if necessary, for that electricity pulse magic that he could do—but he had it on his mind too and did not need to be asked. After she shuddered from the second compression—a gust of wind from the outside, and a hard thrust from him in the other direction—he began to send sparks into her in keeping with his movements and the storm’s fury.

She could barely stay on her own two feet after that. After wobbling unsteadily at the top of the ladder, she decided to just sleep in his bed overnight and sneak out at daybreak.

* * *

Anders was strangely withdrawn the next day, as if something weighed heavily on his mind—and the day after that too. He did not want to share his bed with her the night after the rainstorm, and when she finally had a moment alone, she asked him about his sudden change of mood.

“We’ve been reckless,” he said in a low voice. “I promised us—I promised myself—that we wouldn’t be, but we have.”

“Then do your spell,” she urged him. Her heart began to pound in anxiety at what he was implying, but no good could come of wondering and worrying. If nothing had happened, this would be a crucial reality check for them to start being more careful. And if it had... then better to know.

He took a deep, uneasy breath, lifted her tunic, and placed his hand over her abdomen to cast the spell. It glowed vividly blue. He jerked away, backing up, and slammed back-first against the nearest wall. His eyes were wider than she had ever seen before. _“Maker,”_ he swore under his breath, staring at her.

She did not know the first thing about the creation school, let alone how to “read” such a specific medical spell, but that was all the answer she needed. Her eyes widened too, and an oath of her own escaped her mouth.

He breathed heavily, shaking his head, easing away from the wall and towards her, but he did not touch her. “Yes,” he said, though it didn’t need to be said. “Oh, Maker. I knew it.” He sighed. “It’s probably not too late for that herbal brew, if you....” He took another breath, and she noticed that his face grew sad at the words he had not said. “What do you want to do?”

She gazed to one side, her hand involuntarily finding its way to rest over her lower belly. “That’s not even a question. Of course I’m having it.”

He realized that she had seen the look on his face. “If you’re not ready, then you don’t have to for my sake,” he said.

She decided to bridge the distance between them herself, since he was not doing it. Stepping close, she wrapped both arms around his waist and rested her head under his chin. “It’s not only for your sake. This is _part_ of the life we wanted to build, Anders. It’s something I wanted.”

“Not right now.”

“I didn’t _expect_ it right now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ it.” She paused, a fear suddenly flooding her. “Are _you_ changing your mind about us?” she asked, her voice sounding strangely small to her ears. “Does this make you question if you—”

He enveloped her in his arms at once, stroking her back and her long hair. “Oh, Maker, no,” he said immediately and feelingly. “Certainly not. Please don’t think _that._ I guess I just... don’t want this to prevent you from doing anything else that you might have wanted....”

“What could that possibly be?” she asked. “Anders, I’m a mage. So are you. What do you suppose this would keep us from doing?”

He held her silently, unable to dispute her point.

“When I was a child, and Carver and Bethany were really little, Mother used to tell us stories about Kirkwall,” she said, gazing ahead past him. “I had a fantasy of going there and becoming a noble again, like she had been.” She pointed at a dark scorch mark in one corner. “Guess what that is?”

He craned his head. “It looks like a burn mark.” Something occurred to him. “Was that—”

“It was. My first magic,” she said.

“Of course it was fire,” he said with a grin.

“Of course,” she agreed. “I was nine.” She laughed mirthlessly. “No more dreams of reclaiming the family seat. I think Father was actually... not disappointed that I was a mage, but somewhat crestfallen that any of his children would experience the restrictions that he had on what he could be and do.” She sighed. “It’s all right. I’ve known for over a decade that I would have a quiet life, like my parents. But at least we’ll have this.” She smiled at him. “I didn’t really expect to leave this house, you know. I didn’t think I would be able to have a family of my own.”

He considered that, finally nodding in contentment and holding her close. She nestled her head into the crook of his neck and closed her eyes, swaying slightly as they stood.

In truth, she had never fully accepted the restrictions of being a mage, even a free mage. It always seemed an injustice to her, and she expected she would always wonder what she could have been in life if she had not been born with magic. But it no longer tormented her, at least. She could find peace with the vision that was now in her mind: a cabin, perched within sight of her parents’ home in this same clearing. There would be books of magic in every room... they would have a cat and a dog... Anders would learn from her and her father about how to raise food... she would bear him half a dozen children with mischievous smiles and various shades of red and blond hair... _and probably magic,_ she thought with a pang. Now that she was going to be a parent herself, she understood how her father had felt about that.

“We’ll have to tell my parents,” she finally said. He blanched at that, as did she. “It’s unavoidable now, Anders.”

“Erm... promise me one thing,” he said, releasing her at last. “If your father readies a spell to turn me into a smoldering pile of ash, please intercede for me so we can take to the hills together?”

She laughed, relieved at the touch of levity. “He won’t do that. It happened to him and Mother too, after all. Did you know that?”

Anders laughed. “I suspected.”

“It’s true. I was born _quite_ scandalously early. I’ll remind them if they get shirty with us.”

* * *

“You two certainly don’t make anything easy,” Malcolm groused as the young couple sat before him and Leandra. “I suspected that... ah, no matter. It is what it is. In the blood, right, Caitlyn?”

She glanced at her lap, reddening.

“All right then. I will try to keep my ears open for signs of Templar parties in the south. I’m afraid that’s the only way. I admit, I do not know most of them anymore, and I certainly don’t know of any who serve at Kinloch Hold who I’m certain would smuggle a phylactery out of the tower. Our best hope is still to draw them out with it in their possession, searching for you. Spend all the time you want outside.” He gazed evenly at them. “It’s not as if any further ‘damage’ can be done, is it?”

“I’m sorry,” Anders muttered, chastened.

Malcolm got up from his chair, his face softening. He walked over and stood beside Anders, rubbing one shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m going to be a grandfather. I’ll get to see my firstborn start a family of her own. I’m just ribbing you.”

The young mage looked up at the elder. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I can generally detect humor,” he said, shaking his head in surprise.

“You were obviously scared of this conversation, and you’re still shocked at your own news. You’re preoccupied and I can’t blame you. But... we have been through this too, Leandra and I.”

“That’s right,” she chimed in, gazing at her daughter. “Please, ask one of us if you’re worried about something.”

Caitlyn took a shuddery breath. She had never had a particularly close relationship with her mother, but perhaps this would be the event that changed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to say, just so everyone is 100% clear on this, that this is the last chapter of unblemished, undarkened light and sweetness. There _will_ be additional ones in the future that are happy, but the idyllic, innocent days are over for good, and the next 4-5 chapters are going to be very unhappy indeed.
> 
> This is, of course, pre-Justice, pre- _Awakening_ , pre-lots of things Anders. He’ll change his mind about “the good fight,” sooner than he thinks in fact.
> 
> Finally, in the “shameless self-promotion” department, I customized [this doll](https://betagyrewrites.wordpress.com/2018/08/25/ooak-custom-doll-anders-from-dragon-age/) into Anders a few weeks ago. It's a craft I do on occasion.


	5. Please Say You Won’t Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is not metal! It’s from “Remember When” by Avril Lavigne on _Goodbye Lullaby_.
> 
> Warning for character death in this chapter! And additionally, writing a certain part of it actually _did_ make me cry, so have some tissues handy if this sort of thing gets to you.

When the twins learned their sister’s news, Bethany was unsurprised. Caitlyn recalled that her sister had actually caught Anders in her bed once and doubted that Bethany had believed his lie about “just cuddling.” Carver’s reaction, on the other hand, _was_ a surprise. She had expected his resentment of the mage to double. Instead, curiously, Carver had... not warmed up, precisely, but become far less hostile to Anders.

_Perhaps it’s because he sees this as the catalyst for me to leave the house. It can’t happen immediately, of course, but now that he knows he won’t be “little brother” for much longer, his attitude has improved._ A momentary flash of annoyance filled her mind at that realization, but she supposed on reflection that it made sense.

The night that she told her parents her news, she remained in the common room with her siblings and Anders after Malcolm and Leandra had retreated to their bedroom. She wanted to share his loft... and at this point, why shouldn’t they? Everyone in the family knew what they had gotten up to, and as her father himself had stated, there was no further “damage” that could result. Chastely taking her usual top bunk seemed almost laughable and dishonest now, a joke. It also seemed to her that she ought to take every opportunity to be close to him, because physical intimacy—any kind—was good for the relationship. And yet... she was not completely certain that Anders would be comfortable openly sharing his bed with her in her parents’ own house and didn’t want to make  _him_ ill at ease.

When the twins finally retired, and Anders stifled a yawn, she made her decision. She followed him up the ladder to his loft. He raised his eyebrows at her but did not object. Once she was there, he spoke very quietly, since Carver was probably still awake just across the wall partition.

“I’m really tired tonight, love.”

Her heart fluttered at his use of the word. She gave him a smile. “It’s all right,” she said in an equally quiet voice. “I just wanted to be next to you. If you don’t object.” She paused. “If you do—if you aren’t comfortable with this in my parents’ home—I won’t be offended, but I thought....”

He chuckled. “Why try to pretend? They know what we do. Come here.” He opened his arms to her, and with a happy laugh, she let him envelop her as they snuggled together.

* * *

They awoke the next morning to chattering teeth and extremely sore muscles. Caitlyn found that she had basically clamped around his chest, and their legs were tangled together. It wasn’t even an embrace; it was latching—because the cabin was freezing cold. They had left the hearth cold, and tonight, at last, the long-expected late-season freeze had struck.

Anders groaned as she extricated herself painfully from him, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering for a moment before casting a healing spell to loosen his muscles and then a second one for her. “Maker’s breath,” he swore, pulling on his coat and shivering again.

“At least somebody had the right idea for staying warm,” Bethany called out, observing that they were awake. They crawled to the edge of the loft and gazed down; she was emerging slowly from the small bedroom, wrapped in her winter furs.

Caitlyn gazed at the dead embers of the hearth. It was risky, and her father had forbidden her and Bethany from using magic in a risky manner indoors, but.... She readied her magic, aimed, and sent a fireball straight at the kindling from the loft balcony.

“I’ll just ignore that I saw you do that,” Malcolm called out to her as he came out of his bedroom.

When they were all finally in the common room, huddled in front of the blazing fire and sipping hot cider, Malcolm spoke. “Well, Anders,” he said, “I’ll have plenty to tell you in the coming months about gardening, farming, and the seasons, but this is fairly typical and it’s why you have to be careful about what you plant and when you plant it. You want to make sure you don’t plant anything that’ll sprout quickly.”

The young mage nodded silently.

“My daughter knows a lot about this sort of thing herself, but she doesn’t have twenty years of hard-earned experience in it.” He sipped his cider. “And by ‘hard-earned,’ I mean that. My wife and I had to learn this out of books and from neighbors.” He smiled at the couple. “I’m glad you won’t.”

* * *

That frost really was the final hurrah of winter, however. There were several more cold nights, but none in which the temperature dipped below freezing again. As the daylight grew longer and the calendar ticked towards Summerday, the first of Bloomingtide, all the household seemed to regard the month with anticipation.

Summerday was when the Hawkes traditionally planted the remaining crops for which they had not yet done so. Anders had taken note in his personal journal of when they had planted each variety of seed in the ground, for future reference, along with other skills of which he had little to no knowledge, including various cooking recipes. The approach of the warm season, in earnest, was something he looked forward to on one hand and somewhat dreaded on the other. He knew that with the lasting improvement in the weather, the day would come when he and Malcolm Hawke would have to resolve the issue of the Templars being able to track him. Putting a partner and a child at risk of being captured later on was completely unacceptable, and he knew that.

Anders had his own plans for Summerday, as well.

* * *

Caitlyn washed her face and changed her clothes before dinner, after a long day of gardening. She let down her hair, picked up her hairbrush, and ran several strokes through her hair, smiling mildly at her reflection in the mirror as she did. The sun had been good for her; she looked a bit pink, but not burned. At last finished with her lavations, she stepped away from the small oval mirror and walked out of the room.

Anders was waiting off to the side in the common room. “There you are,” he said as she emerged. She walked towards him. He took her hands in his and pecked her lightly on the forehead. “Do you have a moment?”

She wasn’t sure what to think. He _looked_ eager and happy, but at the same time, she had been dreading the day that her father would leave the house with him to confront the Templars. Was this to be today—or tomorrow? Was he saying goodbye to her before doing that, at last?

She decided to bury her fear for now. “You need only ask,” she purred.

He kissed her again. “Let’s step outside.” He opened the door and escorted her just outside the cabin, near the threshold. The air was springlike once again. “Cait,” he began, “you know... how I feel about you.”

Her heart began to thump. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” she confessed.

He smiled. “When I was in the Circle, love was only a game, and a dangerous one at that. The Templars could use it to hurt you, and you could never have a family.... But this is real, what we have. I have never known a mage who dared to fall in love... until I met your family. And this is the rule I most cherish breaking.” He took something out of his pocket and held it in a closed fist. “You saw this the first full day I was here.” He opened his fist, revealing the sapphire-set-in-silver ring that he had said had belonged to his mother. “I hope it fits—it would thrill me for you to wear it—and I think its original owner would approve too.”

She stared at him with wide eyes. “Anders—are you asking me to marry you?”

He glanced down, his face forming a faint grimace. “I—” He sighed. “I—it’s a promise. I’m making a promise... if you’ll accept it. I feel that, until I can truly be free of the Circle and they cannot find me—find us—I shouldn’t jinx it, and asking that would be a jinx... but I promise you, after I am free, after my phylactery is destroyed, I’ll ask you properly.” He gazed at her pleadingly. “Will you wear that for now? I’ll understand if you don’t want to without an actual proposal—”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his head down for a kiss—though he offered no resistance, wrapped her even more tightly in his arms, and deepened it. “I would be honored to wear it,” she whispered to him as she broke the kiss. She held out her hand to him, her fingers trembling a little.

He took her hand in his, steadying her trembles, and slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit well. He brought her hand to his lips, then released it and cradled her cheek again.

“I won’t let you forget your promise,” she teased him. “Once you are free, you _will_ ask me officially.”

He chuckled and pulled her close. They remained like that, swaying in the dusk, until they had to return inside for dinner.

* * *

“Does that mean what I think it does?” Bethany asked Caitlyn later that night.

She gave her little sister a grin. “Maybe?”

Bethany squealed. “Did he get on bended knee?”

“No,” she said. “He actually just promised me that he’ll ‘ask me properly’ once he is definitely free of the Circle. I’ll make him get on one knee then,” she said with another smirk.

“I doubt you’ll have to make him. He wants it to be dramatic and perfect.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “and he said he is afraid of ‘jinxing’ the phylactery mission too. Still, I consider this to be as good as.”

“It is! I’m so happy for you.”

* * *

The days advanced toward summer. Malcolm spent more time than usual in Lothering, keeping an ear open for rumors of strange traveling Templar parties in the south. The local Chantry had a few Templars about, including the family friend Ser Wesley Vallen, but these had little or nothing to do that related to mages. Instead, they often acted as guards against the threat of banditry. Lothering was the only town of any notable size this far south on the road, which made it a target for highwaymen.

He was having a pint of ale at the inn one afternoon when the innkeeper himself bustled out to the bar, in high dudgeon about something. The portly man slapped his rag down on the bar and began to wipe, complaining loudly to all his patrons.

“Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “You lot truly won’t believe what I just heard!”

Malcolm had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he waited for another patron to ask.

“Well,” the innkeeper said conspiratorially, glad of an audience, “apparently our local Templars have been officially reprimanded by the Knight-Commander of Ferelden himself for allowing an escaped apostate to lurk somewhere nearby for nigh six months!”

Malcolm’s attention was fixed upon the man, as he hung on every word.

“He’s sent a team on its way, word has it,” said the man.

“How many?” Malcolm finally asked. “Will there be a curfew? What’s it going to mean for us?”

“I don’t know how many—two or three, I hear. Don’t know about a curfew. I reckon that’ll depend on whether they call one when they come in.”

“That doesn’t seem right to me,” declared a young man who was a squire in the service of Bann Ceorlic. “Templars overriding the bann’s authority like that....”

The innkeeper shrugged. “I can’t say as I like it either, because it would hurt my business, but you can’t gainsay them.”

“Well, it’s not right. That’s a power for his lordship, not some people that ultimately answer to the Orlesians. And I haven’t seen any sign of an apostate. If there has been one, it hasn’t hurt anything. If he’s been around here for six months, they should leave him be, I say.”

The innkeeper glared. “Now you just watch your mouth.”

The squire shrugged. “Poor blighter. They won’t be kind to him if he’s been out that long.”

“I said that’s enough of that kind of talk. I don’t want them to come down on this inn.”

* * *

“We need to do this tomorrow.”

Anders shuddered. He knew the day was coming, and it at last had arrived. _Well,_ he thought, _it’ll be settled soon, at least._

Caitlyn’s eyes were huge. “I knew it was necessary, but I just hoped... well, I hoped that they wouldn’t look for you again after no signals from it for so long.”

Anders took her hands and sighed, gazing down. “I’ve escaped numerous times before. I’m a thorn in their side. They weren’t going to assume anything about me, I’m sure.” He cradled her cheek. “It was inevitable, love. But it’ll soon be over, and then I’ll be free and we can start our life together.”

“Unless....”

_“No.”_ He didn’t care that they were seated on the divan right in front of her entire family. He pulled her close and kissed her in a quick but intense kiss. “Don’t even think it. This did not happen—I did not stop right outside this cabin, and  _this_ didn’t happen”—he placed a hand on her lower abdomen—“for nothing. We are  _meant_ to be together.”

Malcolm was holding Leandra close by his side, as she too was upset at the news that they were going to set out tomorrow to confront a band of unknown, probably hostile Templars. “He’s right,” he said to his daughter. “I’ve believed that from almost the very start.”

She wanted to go, but she did not dare ask. She knew that neither one of them would hear of it, and that despite their denials of the possibility of capture, they _did_ know it was a possibility. And if she were along and were captured as well, the Chantry would take her child away as soon as it was born.

Late that night, when the family got ready for bed, she did not give it a moment’s thought. She climbed the ladder to Anders’ loft, determined and brooking no disagreement or debate. He was expecting it and met her with a peaceful, almost regal look on his face, holding her hand to ease her to the top of the ladder, then pulling her onto the bed gently. Caitlyn had the momentary thought that her parents were probably doing the very same thing—but she didn’t want to think about her parents right now, least of all in this manner, so that line of thought evaporated immediately.

This time was sweet, tender, and long-lasting. When at last he drew away from her, leaving a final trail of kisses up her body, he tumbled onto his back and pulled her close, murmuring professions of love into her ears.

_Is this the last time—_ she banished that thought half-formed. It was too ghastly to bear contemplating.

* * *

“All right,” Malcolm said the next morning as Leandra fussed tearfully over him. “I’ve thought about this. From what I heard at the inn, it seems that we may have waited too long. If the local Templars have been reprimanded, that sounds as if the Knight-Commander suspects very strongly that Anders is in _Lothering_ specifically. Granted, there aren’t many other settled places he _could_ be to the south, but I was hoping... ah, never mind. The point is, if they know that, then the Templars he sent might well return from the Circle with a larger search party after we’ve got the phylactery away—a party large enough to comb the whole town. This house is very hard to find, of course... it’s well off the beaten path... but I think we should move after this affair is settled. I’m sorry,” he said as his wife and twins became sad.

Leandra dabbed at her eyes. “Please be safe,” she urged him.

He smiled weakly at her. “We’re strong mages. And the worst case, we’ll get locked up together and can conspire together to escape again. We’re both experts in the subject, after all.”

_That’s not the worst case,_ Caitlyn thought in sudden horror. She turned to her father with wide eyes. “When can we expect you back?” she choked out. “When should we start to worry? It’s going to be so hard, staying here, waiting—”

“Three days? It sounds as if the party has been dispatched. This should be quick.” He gave her a sympathetic glance. “I know it’s going to be tough for all of you, but please, you especially, try to stay calm. Nervousness can’t be good for your little one.”

_That’s true,_ she thought—but unfortunately, his words only created a new fear, the fear that her own anxiety would cause her to lose the baby.

Anders could tell that she was extremely upset and troubled. He rose from his chair and pulled her to her feet, taking her aside for a quick private moment. The gesture finally brought tears to her eyes as she contemplated what she was so terrified she would soon lose. Her family sat silently as they darted away to speak alone.

She buried her head in the crook of his neck, trying to muffle sobs and keep the tears out of her eyes that kept wanting to fall. Desperately, she grabbed his hands and pressed both of them on her lower belly, against her curves. “Feel,” she pleaded. “Do your creation magic. Tell me it’s all right, that I haven’t already hurt it by being anxious.”

He knew that their child was right there, just beneath his hands, but it was different somehow to reach out with his magic, his finely honed medical spells, and sense the presence of another being. Mother and child were in perfect health, he thought. And this time, he was able to sense something that he had not before.

“I do feel him,” Anders said, gasping, “and he’s in perfect health.”

It took a moment for Caitlyn to realize what he’d said. “Him?” she finally said weakly. “You... can tell?”

He lifted her head gently from his shoulder and gazed into her green eyes. “You’re far enough along that I can now. It’s a he.” Keeping his hands on her sides, he got on his knees and lifted her tunic to plant a kiss on the spot that was still almost perfectly flat. He leaned his cheek against her, closing his eyes, and then rose to his feet again, placing his hands over the spot once more.

She suddenly choked up. “Please be safe,” she pleaded with him. “Please. I know this must be done, but I’m so scared. Please come back to me.”

He kissed her on each cheek. “I will. I’ll come back—to both of you. I promise.”

* * *

Malcolm and Anders tracked up the Imperial Highway, using their staves as walking sticks. “You know,” the elder mage said conversationally, “I meant to confess something to you once I got you alone. But you spent so much time with my daughter that that was difficult.”

Anders chuckled. “You’ve been very understanding of that, all things considered.”

“As I said once, I’m many things—and you’re about to learn another thing I am—but I hope I am never guilty of hypocrisy.” He paused in his speech for a moment before adding, “Though if you had ended it with her, I’d have cursed you halfway to Gwaren.”

“Well, _that_ wouldn’t be an instance of hypocrisy, since you never did such a thing to a woman,” Anders joked. “But I love her. And I’d never abandon my child.”

“I know.” He smiled at the blond mage. “Here’s what I was going to confess to you. That ward that protected your hide until you started going outside with her to knock her up?”

Anders gaped at the mage’s bluntness, but he had a feeling that Malcolm—like Caitlyn—was talking like this to get a reaction out of him.

“You were right the first night. It’s blood magic.” He ran a hand through his reddish hair. “I learned it from the Grey Wardens. There was something I did for them, twenty years ago, to earn a nice nest egg... and this favor involved blood wards. The form that protects our house has nothing to do with demons. I’d never do that to my daughter, make her deal with demons and trick her.”

Anders had suspected that, but he hadn’t thought about it in a while. He wasn’t sure what to think now that he knew. “But you did trick her about what type of magic it was,” he said in a low voice.

Malcolm looked pained. “I regret that, Anders—I really do. You can tell her if you like, once we return. I’ll take the consequences of that lie. But if it’s a choice between having her do a mild form of blood magic that doesn’t involve a demonic bargain, and having my family at greater risk—what was I to do? The blood magic that I performed for the Wardens gave us the ability to establish ourselves. A milder form has protected us for years. There are few things I wouldn’t do for my family.” He gave the younger mage a knowing, mild smile. “You’ll learn that soon.”

Anders considered what he had just been told. Would he use a blood ward to keep the Templars from stealing their as-yet unborn child away?  _Yes,_ his thoughts supplied.  _I would. If that were the only way, I would._

His thoughts then turned to Malcolm’s assurances that these wards had  _not_ involved demonic bargains. Would he deal with a demon to protect Caitlyn and his child? That... was a more difficult question to answer, because he knew that demons lied and promised things that they could not deliver. Mages who learned blood magic from demons didn’t usually become abominations in that bargain, because what mage would allow a demon to possess them merely to learn that magic? No, demons got into mages by promising much bigger, much more meaningful and significant things than that—the very sorts of things that they could not actually grant.

_But if they could?_ his traitorous mind nagged at him.  _If they actually could protect your family... would you? What about a benevolent spirit of the Fade, that wouldn’t make false promises?_

Anders dismissed this question as a meaningless hypothetical. There was no point in speculating about something that wouldn’t happen, and he needed to be on his guard for when he and Malcolm encountered the Templars.

* * *

They were several miles north of Lothering when Malcolm suddenly tensed. He gripped his staff tightly, on his guard and alert.

Anders halted in his tracks and instinctively grabbed his own staff. His gaze darted from left to right in the path ahead, looking for the telltale slotted bucket helmets of Templars—

A growling, snarling thing—Anders could not identify what—burst out of the thicket on one side of the road, slamming into him and knocking him down. Fetid breath filled his nostrils, the scent of rot and decay and blood. He heard footfalls and Malcolm’s war cries, and was aware that there were more of the—whatever they were—but right now he just had to get this _thing_ off him before it bit him.

He could cast without his staff, so he sent a powerful force hex at the creature that sent it flying backwards, away from him. He grabbed up his staff from the ground and blasted it with a lethal frost.

What  _was_ this thing? It looked mostly human and was dressed as a bandit, more or less... but something was extremely wrong with it.

“Ghouls!” Malcolm exclaimed. “I need some help here, Anders!”

Anders whipped around and saw, to his horror, that Malcolm was swarmed with the things. Ghouls, Tainted people that had advanced so far with the Blight sickness that they no longer had their minds, pawed and snarled at him, stabbing with the weapons that they had wielded when they were themselves. Malcolm had already been stuck once; his shoulder was bleeding profusely. Anders grimaced. “Get down if you can!” he shouted to the mage as he cast a furious lightning storm at the swarming ghouls.

The injured Malcolm staggered to his feet, his hair in an electrified halo around his head, but to Anders’ amazement and infinite respect, he was still fighting despite the shock and the bleeding wound in his shoulder. He blasted a gibbering ghoul back with a powerful entropy spell as Anders took advantage of the brief reprieve to heal the injury.

A few of the ghouls that had been hit by Anders’ lightning were getting to their feet again, but the two mages were ready now. Anders took the ones closest to him and left the rest to Malcolm. With a powerful storm of lightning and frost, they silenced the remaining creatures permanently.

Malcolm breathed deeply and rubbed his shoulder. “Well,” he said, sounding exhausted, “that was one thing I didn’t count on. After we’ve dealt with the Templars, I definitely need to tell Duncan about this.”

* * *

_One day later._

Malcolm was not well, and nothing Anders could do seemed to cure it. If anything, his condition was worsening by the hour. Fatigue overcame him frequently, his eyes had dark circles around them, and his irises were changing. There was something oddly glassy about their affect now.

The elder mage finally bade them stop by the roadside. He sat down on a fallen tree and breathed heavily, gazing at the ground.

“Anders,” he said after what seemed an eternity of silence, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Anders’ heart began to palpitate. “What do you mean, ser?” he asked, shocked into sudden formality.

Malcolm gazed up at him with circled, weary eyes. “I am infected with the Blight sickness.”

Anders collapsed to his knees. His honey-brown eyes grew wide with horror.  _“No,”_ he breathed. “Please, no, it can’t be—”

But he knew himself that it must be. His healing magic could cure almost anything... but not that. The Taint had no cure except becoming a Grey Warden. Everybody knew that. And the only Grey Wardens whose locations he was certain of were in Denerim, leagues and leagues from here.

“You need to go home,” he said. “Tell them. I’m sorrier than I can express to put that on you, son. May the Maker give you the words to say... though there probably are none.”

“I should’ve killed that first ghoul faster,” he burst out. “It’s my fault. It was the stab, wasn’t it? An open wound, allowing it in.... I wasn’t there for you quick enough.”

“It was _not_ your fault,” Malcolm said firmly. “That thing stuck me at the same time you got knocked over. There was nothing you could’ve done. Listen, Anders. Go home, and get them out as soon as you can. The Templars will be upon you in a matter of days. Go to the Chasind and take refuge there.”

“No,” he insisted. “We’ll go to Denerim instead. The Void with my phylactery; your life is more important. We’ll go to the Grey Wardens....”

Malcolm gave him a heavy, sad look. “Anders. I won’t make it to Denerim.”

Anders stared back at him emptily. “No,” he insisted.

“A strong entropy spell would end it peacefully... but....” He trailed off, realizing there was no point in reminding Anders that this school of magic was alien to his skill set. “Have you any deathroot?”

Anders shook his head. “I’m a Healer. I... don’t keep that.”

Malcolm drew the short knife that he kept on his belt. Anders recoiled in shock and anger at what the older mage was implying. “I’m sorry, son. You don’t deserve to have this put upon you. But if you don’t, I’ll die looking and acting like those things, and you’ll have to do it anyway to defend yourself. Please, Anders. It’s hard, but that’d be so much worse.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” the young mage cried miserably, accepting the blade but not doing anything with it. “There were still things I needed to learn from you. I was going to be your son-in-law eventually.” He gazed at Malcolm in denial and despair. “You won’t get to see your grandson... it’s a boy, did you know that?” he added bleakly.

“Hey.” Malcolm mustered up all the strength he could to face Anders. “Listen. You’ll be all right. You had me as a sort of father for six months. No Blighted creature can take that away.” He gazed sadly at him. “Now... I’m asking three last things of you. Let me die with dignity, without losing who I am... then go home and take care of my family, your family now... and love my oldest girl with everything you’ve got.”

Anders stared ahead, finally, wretchedly, nodding. He turned to the man who, for however briefly, had meant so much to him, and raised the blade to Hawke’s chest. The words felt strange to his tongue, but Malcolm was a man of faith, he knew, so this, right now, was more than just an offhand, trite saying. “Maker turn his gaze upon you,” he said, hoping that the words of someone with  _no_ faith in the institution that purported to speak for the Maker would still be heard by the deity himself.

* * *

He knew he was supposed to go home. He knew that Templars were after him. He knew that Hawke himself would not have wanted Anders to act sentimentally with no time to spare, but it seemed wrong, immoral, even blasphemous to leave his mentor’s body by the side of the road. As horrible as it would be to bring home a container of ashes, it would be worse to do nothing.

He had built a pyre and laid out Malcolm’s body when he heard the regular clatter of horse hooves on the road. He knew in his heart what they were before he could see them—and it was then that he realized what a horrible, disastrous mistake he had made.  _But maybe—just maybe—I can take them myself,_ he thought with a ridiculous, wild surge of hope as he saw that there were only two of them.  _Maybe I can at least accomplish this._ He picked up his staff and cast a bolt of lightning at the approaching pair.

The horses screeched in dismay as their riders’ metal armor received a powerful shock. Anders readied another spell—but one of the Templars raised a hand and blasted him backward to the ground in a glow of lyrium. He sat there, stunned, his entire body tingling, suddenly unable to cast a spell.

The horses’ hoofbeats slowed to a silence as the pair of Templars reached the spot where he was crumpled. As soon as they took off their helmets, the last shred of hope faded for Anders. These two were Ser Rolan and Ser Rylock, and he knew both of them—much better than he wanted to.

There had been a handful of Templars at the Circle who had genuinely liked mages and viewed their profession as a way to help and mentor them. Anders had not ever had much to do with these, because he did not want to make friends with people he saw as his captors, but he knew that others saw it differently. The vast majority of Templars held the view that their work was a sacred charge; that mages, while children of the Maker, were weak and susceptible; that they were the protectors of mages—from demons and from themselves—and that, in the direst cases, it was a sad but necessary duty to put down a mage or cut off their connection to the Fade for the mage’s own good. It was maddening to Anders, but it at least gave them a sense of responsibility to their charges, which was preferable to the _third_ kind of Templar—which Rolan especially, and to a lesser degree, Rylock were. _They_ took the view that the Maker did not intend anyone to be born a mage after the supposed corruption of the Golden City by magisters, that mages were literally cursed before birth, that the demons of the Fade had gotten to their souls while they were still in their mothers’ wombs and that this was why they were born with magic. They viewed their job as an opportunity to rid the world of an evil. Rolan, indeed, had served at Kinloch Hold for the first three years of Anders’ residence there, the Templar who volunteered—creepily eagerly—to make mages Tranquil, until he had racked up too many “accidents” involving Tranquilizations that turned fatal. Greagoir had reassigned him to hunt apostates and maleficarum across Ferelden, dismissing him from Kinloch. Anders thought he should have been executed for murder... but it seemed that that was not done to Templars.

_They’re going to take me away,_ he realized miserably as Rylock picked up his staff and confiscated it.  _They’re taking me back. But—I escaped before. I can escape again. Someday. But for now...._

“Please,” he begged Rylock. He knew he stood no chance of persuading Rolan, who was a sadist and mage-hater. “Please. You win. Just, let me give this man a proper pyre before you take me back. It’s not right to—”

Rolan scoffed in disgust. Anders caught another strong whiff of lyrium, then a feeling of wooziness, and then—nothing at all. The Templar blasted him to the ground, unconscious, with a powerful Holy Smite.

Rylock gave her colleague a surprised, disapproving look. “I have his staff,” she said. “He was surrendering. It wouldn’t have hurt to let him give that fellow a pyre.”

Rolan spat on the ground. “We owe no favors to the apostate.”

“Then as servants of the Chantry, we should do it ourselves,” she said.

He scoffed. “It is not our duty. The priests do funeral rites. And furthermore, this one was an apostate too. Look, he has a staff.” He pointed at the object that lay just to the side of the pyre Anders had built. “Unrepentant apostates prowl the Void. It would be wrong for us to give such a one an Andrastian cremation. We should go. Our task is complete.”

Rylock looked angry, which Rolan noticed. “You are showing too much sympathy for mages,” he said fiercely. “I never would have thought it of you. You should remember whom you serve, unlike our soft and wayward brothers and sisters at Kinloch Hold, and it is _not_ the cursed ones.”

Rylock glowered at her colleague’s back as she lifted Anders’ unconscious form onto her horse, but the Knight-Commander had placed Rolan in charge, so there was nothing she could do.

* * *

“Something is wrong,” Caitlyn said. She rested her head unhappily on the tabletop. “I know you haven’t wanted to think of it, but something is. They should have been back by now.”

Neither Leandra, Bethany, nor Carver could argue this anymore. She had been anxious and upset for the past six days, but they had attributed it to the mood swings of pregnancy—and tried to think optimistically, on the basis that there was nothing that they could do for Anders or Malcolm by being negative from a distance. But the unpleasant truth could not be denied any longer. Something had gone wrong.

There was a moment of silence, and then Carver got to his feet. “I’ll go out.”

“What?” Bethany exclaimed. “Alone? No, Carver—”

“If the Knight-Commander reprimanded the local Templars, they’re going to be temporarily more zealous, so it’s not safe for mages to be out and about in this area in situations in which they might need to cast spells,” he said. Bethany’s face fell, but she saw his argument—and Caitlyn was surprised at the fact that he had thought of this, which even she had not, as well the fact of his instant concern for his sisters. Carver went to the corner and picked up his bow and quiver. “I should do it. I’ll... come back when I find something out.”

* * *

Carver returned the following day on the family mule. All three women knew as soon as he approached that the news was bad, and when they noticed the sacked burden that he bore behind him, they all feared the worst. Caitlyn’s eyes widened, not knowing whether it was her father or Anders whose body her brother carried, but hardly caring—one of them was dead and the other was gone, that she knew at once. Bethany’s hands clamped onto her opened mouth, hiding her gape of horror. Leandra was literally overcome. Her eyes rolled backward and she toppled over, only just caught by Bethany, as Carver’s mule approached the cabin.

He dismounted and took down the sack and another object—her father’s staff. He glanced unhappily at his mother’s passed-out form, which Bethany managed to revive with a rudimentary healing spell. Leandra slumped to the ground, leaning against the side of the house. As she identified her husband’s staff, she almost swooned again.

“It’s Father,” Carver said dully. He glanced apologetically at Caitlyn. “I didn’t see Anders.”

Her mind instantly leaped to a single conclusion. “Those _bastards!”_ she shouted. “They took him prisoner and _killed_ Father!”

Leandra and Bethany gave her pained and disapproving looks respectively. Even Carver was taken aback at the anger and vehemence of her reaction. “I... don’t think that’s exactly what happened,” he said.

She was prepared to shout something hateful and vengeful back at him, but caught herself. Her brother had been the one to see Father’s body. He had been the one to cover Father up, to bring him back. This kind of reaction was cruel to him, she realized, and she wasn’t even angry at Carver. She was angry at others, anonymous, faceless others. No sixteen-year-old should ever have to do such things... and especially since it was  _her_ lover, her partner, who had needed Father’s assistance anyway. Caitlyn swallowed the rage and despair, and now guilt, that threatened to overcome her. “What did it look like to you, then?” she asked as calmly as she could.

Bethany was clearly startled that her older sister had not apologized for such a reaction, but she did not speak up.

Carver sighed as he laid out the body bag. “He... his... body... was laid out in a pyre,” he said, trying not to choke up himself. “It hadn’t been lit, but it was set up like a pyre, with kindling and everything. Anders must’ve done that. I think something else ambushed them on the road and... Anders made it and... Father didn’t,” he said, finally losing it.

“And the Templars caught Anders because he tried to do the right thing,” she finished, “and took him away before he could give Father a respectful pyre.”

“There was no sign of anything of his,” Carver said through choked sobs, “not even his staff.”

Caitlyn and Bethany crawled over to Carver and leaned against each of his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” Caitlyn whispered to him. “I should’ve been there—you shouldn’t have had to....”

Leandra was struck silent, staring at the bag that held her husband’s body as if she could not quite believe it. At last, Bethany noticed her mother’s silent, lonely misery. Her sister had lost her love of six months and the father of her unborn child, but he probably was not dead. There was still hope that he might return someday. He had escaped from the Circle before. All three siblings had lost their father, but their mother had lost her husband, the man she had loved so much that she had given up her birth family, the man with whom she had lived a simple but happy life for twenty-one years—longer than any of them even had memories. This loss was incalculable to Bethany. It was a loss beyond her entire lifespan. She gave her brother a final hug and crawled to her mother’s side.

“It’s not your fault,” Carver whispered into his older sister’s ear as Bethany and their mother hugged and cried. “Don’t blame yourself—and don’t blame him. Father wanted to do this.”

“He didn’t want it to end like this.”

There was nothing Carver could possibly say to that, so he did not try. He held his sister and shed silent tears with her until they had no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the emotional roller-coaster of this chapter. I loved writing Malcolm in this, and I do like the idea of a happy, Everyone Lives AU where they all make it to Kirkwall alive and he does have a long-lasting father-figure relationship with Anders, but I couldn’t save him for this story.
> 
> This is obviously putting a very significant additional spin on the eventual Deep Roads expedition in the Free Marches, of course.
> 
> If you know the role that Rolan plays in Anders’ canon, you know he’s going to get what’s coming to him for that. But unfortunately there is a lot of angst to come.


	6. Don’t Turn Your Back on Your Prodigal Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Anders in the Circle. I regret that it had to be a flash-through of a couple years, but I didn’t want to drag this out in story chapters. I hope that I’ve addressed the shock, trauma, grief, and depression aspects sufficiently, but that is for you to judge! The Anders/Karl parts are not explicit, and I actually think they’re no more than hard T, possibly soft M for a brief moment. I’ve never written detailed male slash before—I know this is very unusual, but I just prefer reading and writing het and femslash—and I wouldn’t know how to do it, but I also know that’s not why anyone is here for this fic.
> 
> The chapter title is a lyric from “Tanelorn/Into the Void” by Blind Guardian on _At the Edge of Time._
> 
> Finally, we meet somebody else who’s quite important....

When Anders finally came to, he was sure that this had to be the Fade. His mind was tormenting him, shaping the Fade to be a small room in the Circle at Kinloch Hold.

Then he remembered everything.

_No. This cannot happen. I can’t be locked up here again. And—_ he glanced around wildly, realizing that he was not even in the apprentice dormitories, but isolated somewhere— _why am I in this cell? Why did they separate me from everyone else? Are they going to—_

He calmed himself, taking deep breaths. Whatever happened, he would  _not_ let them make him Tranquil. He’d take out his blade and stick it through his own heart first.

_Maybe they just want to keep me here until they’ve checked me over and talked to me. I was out of the Circle for six months, after all. It is probably that. If they meant to make me Tranquil, surely they would’ve done it while I was unconscious._

_I’ve got to get out again as soon as I can. I have to go back to Lothering. Or... no, I should go to Denerim and tell the Grey Wardens about the ghoul attack. I can go there and ask them to make me a Warden. That would free me from the Circle. Then I’ll write to the Hawkes and have them leave that place, joining me, before it is overrun with Blighted monsters._ Calmed somewhat by the notion of a plan, even a plan with no steps for the actual escape itself, he opened up his traveling purse and examined its contents.

The book of edible plants he had was gone. Apparently they had confiscated that and added it back to the library shelves. His mother’s ring, of course, rested on Caitlyn’s finger, far south in Lothering, a promise he had made that he had to keep to her,  _somehow._ His personal grimoire was still there, as was the pillow his mother had embroidered... and, he noticed, the fiery orange handkerchief was still tied around his arm. Suddenly, it hurt to look at it. He untied the knot, unwound it, and tucked it into the traveling purse on his waist next to the pillow.

The sound of loud, heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He felt a surge of anger at the recognition that these were the footsteps of a Templar in full armor, and when the person—Ser Carroll, he noticed, an authoritarian sort whom Anders had personally slipped past several times for his escapes—appeared, he knew his face was a hostile glower.

“You’re recovered,” Ser Carroll said coldly. “All right. Explain yourself.”

Anders stared back silently, refusing to answer.

“You’d better talk. You’ve been an apostate for six months. The Knight-Commander wants to know what you got up to, what kind of blood magic you must have used to prevent your phylactery from working correctly until recently.”

Anders wanted to continue to defy the Templar’s command, but if they suspected him of using blood magic to conceal himself, then he supposed, with a surge of resentment at this, that he probably should say something. Of course, it actually  _had_ been blood magic, albeit not his own—but they couldn’t know that.

“I have no idea why it didn’t work,” he lied, his voice as cold as Ser Carroll’s. “I didn’t use blood magic. I’ve never used blood magic. I didn’t do anything to interfere with you lot—don’t you suppose that if I _had,_ I might’ve kept it up, so that you wouldn’t have ever _found_ me?” As soon as he voiced the bold words, a painful thought crossed his mind. _I shouldn’t have gone outside as much as I did. If it’s my fate to be stuck indoors, better that it had been the Hawke cottage than here._

Carroll glared. “You cheeky, disrespectful little shit. All right, I’ll tell this to the Knight-Commander. We’ll see what he thinks.”

* * *

“Knight-Commander, Anders has never been suspected of using blood magic,” came the voice of First Enchanter Irving, echoing through the holding cells. “It really is possible that the phylactery was just old, that there was a tiny hairline break in the seal that caused the blood to go bad.”

“That may be, Irving, but I’m worried about him. He has barely spoken a word.”

“If you remember, ser, this was what happened when he first came to the Circle. It appears to be how he... adjusts.”

“I worry that he is at heightened risk of possession.”

“I understand that, ser, which is why I think it would be better to get him out of that isolated cell and back among the other mages. He is a talented Healer; they are very rare. I beg of you, don’t make him Tranquil.”

Anders’ blood ran cold at these words, as he studied the shadows of the two old men, silhouetted in the torchlight down the hallway. So some of them  _were_ considering it.

The Templar sighed heavily. “I don’t want to, but if he is under demonic influence, I don’t want to turn him loose among the other apprentices. You talk to him. Maybe he’ll speak to another mage.”

Anders tensed as the footsteps resumed and drew nearer, but they were not the heavy, metallic stamping of a person in Templar armor. As he waited for the person to appear, dread pooled in his gut.

First Enchanter Irving rounded the corner and stopped in front of Anders’ cell, peering in. His facial expression was disappointed, sad, and deeply troubled. It irritated the Void out of Anders.

“Son,” Irving began.

_You don’t have the right to call me that!_ Anders thought in outrage.  _That’s what Malcolm Hawke was calling me—and he’s gone, because of this. Because of the Circles. How dare you call me that!_

Irving noticed the expression of utter fury forming on the young mage’s face and sighed. “Anders, what are we going to do with you?”

_You could send me to the Grey Wardens,_ he thought mutinously. But of course, he was quite sure that if he suggested that, it would never happen, because Irving—and Greagoir, more importantly—would regard it as a reward.

“I can’t let you out until you tell me something about what you did the past half year,” Irving said. “I want to let you be among the other mages, but the Knight-Commander won’t have it unless you provide some information.” He leaned in as Anders remained resolutely, resentfully stone-faced. “Anders, if you don’t talk to me, the Templars will _make_ you talk to them. What did you do?”

_I survived a blizzard and an attack by Tainted creatures. I found a family of mages that accepted me as one of their own. I fell in love with a woman, another mage, and started a family with her. I saw spring come to the world for the first time since I was twelve. I learned how to plant crops and cook food. And I had to kill the one man who has ever been a true father to me._

“I lived,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. To his dismay, he felt his eyes moistening. “I didn’t ‘do’ anything, First Enchanter. I just lived a normal life.”

Irving’s face was lined and sad. “Anders,” he said, “normal life for us is different.”

_It doesn’t have to be. I saw proof that it doesn’t have to be._

The elderly man sighed. “I believe you. You have never adjusted to Circle life, but you’ve never shown signs of abusing your magic either. I will talk to Greagoir. I suppose you needed to have this experience, but you are back where you belong, so it doesn’t matter now.”

_It doesn’t matter?_ Irving didn’t know, of course—Anders knew he could confide in  _no one_ about the Hawkes or especially his unborn child with Caitlyn, because they might go looking for the child of a mage if he did—but to hear his experiences, their love, their son, dismissed that way hurt and angered him more than he could possibly describe.

* * *

A Templar came to Anders’ cell shortly after that. Anders glowered, still refusing to talk to any of them unless it was necessary. This one did not seem to be there for conversation, anyway. He drew a short knife and grabbed Anders’ arm roughly, shoving up the fabric of his sleeve to make a cut. Anders winced in pain; this was surely much harder and more painful than it had to be. He looked away from the red ribbon of blood flowing out of his forearm into a glass vial, closing his eyes and focusing instead on Caitlyn Hawke. _I hope she doesn’t hate me now,_ he thought suddenly. _If they found her father’s body, I hope they realize what happened and I hope she doesn’t blame me... even though I am to blame, in a way._

The Templar finished filling the new phylactery and shoved Anders’ arm away. “You can heal that now, mage,” he said gruffly.

Giving the man a look of loathing, Anders cast a quick spell over his arm. The Templar then pulled him to his feet and silently marched him up to the apprentices’ dormitories.

* * *

_Two months later._

Anders lurked in the shadows behind Carroll, who guarded the entrance to the tower. The Templar yawned, and while his hand was covering his mouth and his eyes were closed, Anders seized the opportunity.

_This one’s for you, Malcolm,_ he thought as he cast a blast of electrical magic at the man, sending him to the ground in an unconscious heap, lightning arcing across his armor. A heady thrill of triumph filled Anders’ body as he leaped through the threshold.

_I did it! I knew I would. I’m coming home, love._ He dived into Lake Calenhad and ducked completely underwater, holding his breath as he swam—but inevitably, he had to surface to take a gulp of air.

“There he is!” The words echoed from a window just above the ground level of the tower.

* * *

“Anders,” said First Enchanter Irving, his voice both exasperated and somewhat defeated, “you have to stop doing this. If you just devoted your time and energy to preparing for your Harrowing, I could perhaps try to secure a placement for you in a noble house. They always have need of good Healers. But you’ll have to be a full Enchanter before I can do that.”

_I don’t want to serve a noble. I want to go home and be with my family,_ he thought. He glared back at Irving silently.

The older man sighed and left him alone in his cell once again.

* * *

_Five months later._

It was winter again, and Anders realized, with profound sadness and anger, that he had been back in the Circle for longer than he had been among the Hawkes. It had been seven months since the Templars had taken him away; he had lived with the family for six.

_She’s due,_ he thought that night as he curled into himself, buried completely under the covers, in his bed in the dormitories. He had told absolutely no one about this, not even the older apprentice, Karl Thekla, who had been the closest thing he’d had to a friend in the Circle. The times he had experienced with the Hawke family, the love he’d shared, and the idea that, perhaps, he was a father—or soon would be—were secrets for no one else to know.

_If she hasn’t already... Maker, if she still wanted the baby... she’s due now._ The idea that Caitlyn might have done something to terminate the pregnancy out of anger at him cut into his soul, especially since he had no way of knowing, and even more so since anything she could have done after his departure would have been horrific and dangerous to her. It was almost too late for her to have used the herbal potion when he left; anything she could have done since then would have been—

_It would have been butchery,_ he thought.  _It would have been a mundane using knives and poisons on her—or an untrained hedge mage casting entropy spells. Those things can ruin a woman’s body._ The thought nauseated him.  _Maker, don’t let her have done that._ He knew that it was a ridiculous prayer; whatever had happened, had happened—and he also did not  _truly_ believe that Caitlyn would do that. She had loved him. Even if her family had discovered her father’s body—and Anders hoped that they had, to have closure and to give him the funeral that the bastard Ser Rolan had denied—surely she wouldn’t take it out on her little one even if she did blame him for the loss. She had to know, to understand, that he hadn’t wanted any of this to happen, and that he still tried every day to find a way to escape and get back to them....

_What if she lost the baby because she was so upset?_ That... was a possibility that Anders could not dismiss so easily. He recalled their parting that morning. She had already been upset merely at the thought that she might not see them again; what if the dual losses had sent her over the edge? The idea that the Blight and the Templars had, together, cost his child the opportunity to live threatened to overwhelm him with violent, righteous outrage.

The best-case scenario was that she had carried it to term and their baby either had recently been born or soon would be. _Or perhaps she’s going through that right now,_ he thought, his mind fixing upon that thought like the compulsion to tear at a hangnail. _Perhaps she is giving birth right now, suffering the pains of labor. Her mother, brother, and sister are there... but Bethany is not a specialist at healing. She could be suffering, or already suffered, or will suffer in a few days... because I’m not there. She could be bringing our child into the world this very night, and I’m not there. I should be her Healer for this. I should deliver my own child, see him first, hear his cries, and help her. And I’m not. I’m not there when she needs me most. Maker, if I hadn’t already failed her family by not being able to keep her father from dying, I certainly have failed them all now._

He buried his face in his pillow to muffle the sobs, clutching the orange handkerchief under the covers. The pillow became damp and stuck to his cheeks before the Fade took him.

* * *

Even in the Fade, he knew that this was a dream, and that it would be horribly painful when he awakened from it, but it was a good dream and he meant to enjoy it while it lasted. The Hawke cabin glimmered around him, the family bustling about— _all_ of the family.

“You did a fine job last night,” boomed Malcolm Hawke, giving him a paternal pat on the shoulder, as he so often did. “Go see her now.”

Anders wondered for a moment why he wasn’t with Caitlyn overnight, but—oh yes, he remembered now—he had had to be away for something. He was back, though. He smiled at Malcolm and entered the room that he shared with Caitlyn, a new room in the cabin, one just for them.

For them and for the bundle she was holding.

“Can I see him?” he whispered. She lay in bed, her long fiery hair trailing in waves down her shoulders, as she held the bundle close to her chest. The baby’s face was turned away, and his head was concealed by the blanket. Anders wanted to know if he had his hair or hers... or a blend of both....

She turned to him, gazing at him with those fierce emerald eyes, which glittered with flecks of purple in the Fade, so it seemed. Her face broke into a very wide smile as she passed the bundle to him wordlessly.

Anders gazed down at the bundle. The baby’s eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open. _He’s sleeping,_ Anders thought, smiling as he pulled the flap of blanket back from the baby’s head.

Instead of hair, blood covered the infant’s scalp. Anders stared, appalled, but was unable to look away. The infant opened its eyes then, revealing blank, bloody sockets. A dark laugh escaped its mouth, a laugh that should never issue from any baby.

Anders could not stand it. This could not be their child. This was a demon, surely. He threw the thing back at Caitlyn. “What _happened_ to him?” he shouted accusingly.

“It has not happened,” she spoke at last, though her voice was strangely distorted and cold. “Not yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He glared at her. “And what are _you?_ The woman I love wouldn’t be calm and collected about—about this. Stop wearing her face, whatever you are.”

The infant sat upright, smiling inhumanly at Anders, as the personage that resembled Caitlyn got to its feet. As it did, the red hair faded and vanished, its skin turned lavender, and horns grew from its head, revealing a desire demon, an obscene distortion of the natural, beautiful female form.

“Clever mage,” the demon cooed, sidling up close to him even as he tried to get away. “They trained you well at the Circle.”

A tiny part of him almost wanted to talk with this demon simply as an act of revolt against _that_ comment, but only a smidgen. He knew what it wanted. “I’m not letting you possess me, demon. Your kind make false promises, things you can never deliver, and take over our bodies. It isn’t going to happen with me.”

“I was not going to ask you for that,” said the demon, still smiling. “But that doesn’t mean I cannot help you. Don’t you know that there are some among us who know the Circle very well indeed? We see so many of you, and the Templars too. We know some of their... secrets....” She trailed off.

He knew it was a bad idea, but maybe—just maybe—he could get the information that this demon offered without having to give up anything. He had heard of mages who did that, who spoke with demons and extorted something from the demon without giving up anything themselves. It was spoken of in hushed whispers, but—

“Do you know how to get into the phylactery chamber? Is that one of these secrets?”

The desire demon smiled back enigmatically at him, sashaying in the Fade-light.

“What about exits that are unguarded? Are there any of those?”

“I have seen the thoughts of the Templars,” the demon repeated.

“You should not listen to it,” issued another voice.

Anders whirled around, away from the desire demon’s rapidly curdling face. Before him stood an entity of translucent greenish-white, helmeted and armored, bearing an ethereal sword, but nothing like a Templar. This being felt stark and hard-edged, but also clean, pure, and honest—and in reaction, the purplish demon with whom he had been talking began to seem unclean and vile. Anders stepped away from it and faced the new presence.

The... spirit, Anders supposed... flung its arm out in rejection and denial of the desire demon. “This one lies to you. It would insinuate its way into your mind gradually, not taking immediate possession of you, but that _is_ its ultimate goal.”

“You are the liar,” seethed the demon. “I know what this mage seeks! I have the information he desires.” It turned to Anders. “Look at this thing. What does it look like to you? Do you trust a warrior bearing a sword?”

Anders turned back to the spirit. “It’s not a Templar,” he said. “I trust some warriors bearing swords.”

The spirit did not laugh; perhaps it did not understand humor, but it nodded in satisfaction. “Then let us dismiss this one.”

The desire demon was furious. “If you destroy me, the knowledge I have will perish with me.”

Anders hesitated for a moment. The other spirit noticed and responded immediately. “It does have what it claims, but the truth is more complicated than it has told you. If you go into the chamber where the vials are kept, you will trigger a trap. They will catch you inside there. Then, it will offer to take you over to fight them off, seizing upon your desperation and panic.”

Anders could see it at once. He turned back to face the desire demon, fury seething in every line of his face at the planned betrayal that this spirit had revealed.

“A grave injustice has been committed,” the spirit said to Anders. “I see that; your anger at this terrible wrong and your burning desire to see it set right compelled me to your side. But you cannot get justice for _them_ by giving in to this demon or its fearling.” The spirit gestured scornfully at the demon infant. “You will merely become an abomination, be killed, and will not see her or your child again.”

“He _lies!”_ screamed the desire demon.

Anders cleared his thoughts. Benevolent spirits—which this one unquestionably was; its aura proved that—did not lie. They might be dangerous, but they were not deceitful. “No,” he said, turning to the good spirit. “He doesn’t.”

The spirit formed a magical staff from the Fade and tossed it to Anders, drawing his sword on the desire demon as they charged it together. The imagery of the Hawke cabin melted away to become raw Fade, losing shape and form, as Anders and the spirit drove the desire demon and fearling away.

“You have done well, but it has drained you. You should leave the Fade now and wake up,” said the spirit once the demons had disappeared into the ether. He held out his hand, forming a ball of energy in it.

Anders felt himself slipping away back into the waking world. “Thank you....” He realized he didn’t know what kind of spirit this was. “Wait! What idea do you—”

He fell out of the Fade before he could finish the question or the spirit could reply, waking up, shocked and rather horrified, in his bed.

* * *

After the encounter with the good spirit—whatever kind of spirit it was—the desperation and acute misery that had dogged Anders for the past seven months seemed to subside into a sad resignation—not of lifetime imprisonment in the Circle, but of the likelihood that his confinement would continue at least until he passed his Harrowing. The Templars watched him too closely now for another escape attempt to have much chance of succeeding, and _un_ successful attempts would hurt him. If he pushed too far, Irving might not be able to prevent them from—but no, he wouldn’t think that. It wouldn’t happen. He owed it to Caitlyn, to their child—who he hoped had been born healthy—and to the Hawkes not to let that happen. _She would prefer I stayed here for years, biding my time, plotting a final escape that was ultimately successful, than die or be made Tranquil in a half-baked desperate attempt. I hope it doesn’t take years, but she would rather see me then than never again._

This sad resolution calmed him and enabled him to finally renew his studies, though it was not the same as it had been under Malcolm Hawke. The Senior Enchanters were mostly decent people, but they lacked warmth. _The Circle has driven it out of them,_ Anders thought. _They don’t form lasting connections with other people anymore, perhaps because they are too afraid to have something they cannot bear to lose._

Nevertheless, despite his resolution to bide his time, he could not help but think, every day, that he was missing another irreplaceable day in his son’s all-too-brief babyhood. Unless he could get out soon, he wouldn’t get to see Caitlyn nursing him, wouldn’t get to see his first crawls, his first smile, his first steps... wouldn’t get to hear his first words. And that was the _best_ case. The other possibilities did not bear further thought.

_Have I conceded defeat without admitting it?_ Anders found himself wondering.  _I tell myself I will escape permanently someday, once I have this perfect plan, but is that just something I’m telling myself to salvage my own conscience for—yes, think it, face it—abandoning my love and my child?_

* * *

“You are depressed.”

Anders looked up from his desk. His friend, Karl, was hovering nearby, looking deeply concerned.

He leaned back in his chair, sighing. “I suppose so.”

Karl pulled up a chair. “I’ve noticed. It’s been getting worse, and I’m just... do you want to talk about it? Is it because of the long escape?”

Anders was not sure that he should confide anything to anyone, but the truth was that he was starved for meaningful connections. The benevolent spirit had not appeared to him again, which he supposed was just as well. The other apprentices largely avoided him now, after his lengthy escape; he suspected they were either jealous of him or thought that he had done something dreadfully wicked by being an apostate for so long. It sickened him now to overhear amorous laughing in the library or to nearly stumble upon a couple that had their hands up each other’s robes, knowing that it meant nothing to anyone. Two young women had attempted to flirt with him, but he had brushed them off; his heart was already claimed. Meanwhile, the Enchanters were mere instructors, not mentors. He had not thought about it until he had met Malcolm Hawke, but now that he had that point of comparison, he could tell the difference, and it hurt terribly. There were times at night, in the Fade, when he had to relive that horrible moment of sticking Malcolm’s blade into his chest, hoping— _hoping!—_ that he had struck the heart and that it would be very quick, watching him breathe his last, his eyes—so like his daughter’s—closing forever. It had hurt so terribly, and yet... that was proof that it had mattered. Better to feel too much than to feel nothing.

All these thoughts passed through his mind in a second. He made a decision and turned around to face Karl. “It is,” he said in a low voice. “When I was out there, I made friends.” _“Friends.” Oh, love, I’m so, so sorry. I’m saying that to protect you,_ he thought.

Karl nodded sympathetically. “I thought it must have been something like that.” He turned to the blond mage. “I understand if you don’t think you can talk about them. You have a friend here too, if you want. I know I don’t _replace_ any of them, but... I’ve always considered you a friend, and you shouldn’t be all by yourself like this.”

Anders thought he detected an offer of more than friendship, especially in that last sentence, and the implication that he might think Karl was trying to replace Caitlyn—even though Karl did not know about Caitlyn, did not know that what had happened during the long escape was much, much more than friendship. _Or does he know?_ Anders suddenly wondered. He had been depressed indeed. Perhaps Karl had worked out some of the truth. And Anders had long suspected that Karl was attracted to men. For his own part, he had never done anything with another man, though he had to admit that the idea had crossed his mind, before he met Caitlyn, and... it had specifically involved Karl.

_With his own words, he simply offered friendship, and that’s what I’m going to take,_ Anders decided. As long as he had to stay here for the time being, there was nothing wrong with having a friend to help him through the lonely days. It wasn’t as if having a friend was betraying her.

* * *

Anders felt marginally better after talking to Karl, and the improvement in his mood continued when the two young men began to study and duel together regularly. “You know,” remarked Karl, “we may get to be Harrowed by the end of the year. Full Enchanters!” He grinned at Anders. “And you’re a specialist in healing. You might even get an assignment outside the tower. I hear that old Irving would like that.”

_The end of the year,_ Anders thought. It seemed so far off. To Karl he replied, “He mentioned that once to me. I would only be interested if I could go to Lothering, though.”

“Ah.” Karl understood. “Your friends.”

“I’d like to see them again,” Anders said seriously, cringing inside at the almost grotesque understatement of that, wishing that he could trust himself to confide in this mage—but he just couldn’t. What if something happened? The perennial fear in the back of the mind of any Circle mage, which kept them from falling for each other, too: _What if something happened?_ If anyone other than him knew about the Hawkes, that doubled the risk to them. It pained him, and he felt that it created a certain distance in this friendship to have this secret, but he had to keep it.

Fortunately, Karl seemed to understand, even if he visibly wished that Anders would confide in him. He seemed to realize that it wasn’t that Anders distrusted  _him;_ it was something far darker than that. It was that Anders distrusted the Templar authorities and would not put it past them to torture information that they wanted out of a mage. Granted, most Templars who served at Kinloch Hold were not sadists like Ser Rolan... but “most” wasn’t “all.” And there was another fear, a fear that Anders would not voice even to his own thoughts, a fear that he still had for himself, that all mages had—but  _he_ had a plan in case they ever tried it. Anders had his knife, but he had also started to keep deathroot on him. It had felt wrong, because he was a Healer and did not poison people... but he’d had no choice with Malcolm Hawke, and that would have been easier if he had carried a fast-acting poison. He would die before he let them turn him into a creature that had no will of its own and would give up any information merely by being asked.

Anders forced his thoughts out of this dark tunnel and back to the present. “I feel like I’m almost ready to pass my Harrowing now,” he confessed, recalling the nightmare in which the spirit had helped him to reject the desire demon. That was an excellent practice run for the trial itself... and if one looked at it the right way, he already _was_ Harrowed by having done it. But of course, he had to go through the process officially.

Karl nodded. “Same here.”

* * *

Anders regretted missing the arrival of spring and summer. He could attempt to find a window, to see the sun, but this was yet another instance of cruelty, he realized. Now that he knew what he was missing, he wanted out more than ever.

The Harrowings were scheduled, at last, for the beginning of Kingsway. _“Enchanter Anders,”_ he thought with more than a hint of contempt. _That title is all that some mages ever strive for. That’s the crowning glory of their circumscribed lives. I have other dreams._

And yet, and yet. As the days advanced, and the month of Kingsway approached, he realized, to his utter shame and dismay, that the pain was less than it had been before. He rarely cried himself to sleep or ran through horrifying scenarios about what might have happened to his son. In fact, there were occasions during the day when he was having a pleasant conversation with Karl about some magical theory and he realized later that he hadn’t thought about the Hawkes at all.

_What’s wrong with me?_ he thought, brooding one night.  _This happened when my mother died too. It hurt horribly at first, especially the thoughts of how much I had lost by being in the Circle instead of being with her, but then it began to fade. Is this just what happens with grief? Is this how my mind copes? Or am I becoming like almost everyone else in this Maker-forsaken place and losing what makes me a person?_

He needed to get out, and he knew it. His mother, at least, had passed away; he had known that he could not do anything for her any longer. But that wasn’t true—as far as he knew—for Caitlyn and her family. _For our boy._ The thought that he had already missed half of his son’s first year of life suddenly rushed into his mind, reigniting the old anger.

It was at that very moment that Karl walked into the corner of the library where he was seated.

“What in the Maker’s name is the matter?” Karl exclaimed, noticing Anders’ fury.

He got up from his desk to try to calm himself. “Bad memories.”

Karl hesitated for a moment before coming over to Anders’ side and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. The big day is a month away. I guess do what you have to do, but... only if you’re sure that it won’t last for a whole month, you know?”

Anders sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. “You’re right,” he muttered, knowing it to be true. He did not think there was any chance that his state of mind would prevent him from passing the Harrowing, but it _was_ possible that Irving would call it off if it were apparent that Anders was in a bad state. _Remember the resolution,_ he told himself. _You’ll see her again, but you have to do it right. Surrendering to panic and desperation won’t help anyone._

Karl began to rub his muscles, relaxing the tension. Anders closed his eyes and let the other mage increase the massage. It really did feel good, and he probably needed it, he realized. This was just a back rub. It was just what friends did when one of them was suffering. It wasn’t anything else.

He continued to tell himself that up until the point that Karl planted a kiss on the side of his neck.

* * *

_Not betraying her, you say? How about now?_

The accusing thought lashed Anders as he lay in his bed. Beside him, the other mage dozed in the Fade, and the plain truth was that—despite his accusing conscience—the greater part of him had wanted Karl to stay the night. He had been  _so lonely_ for so long, and Karl had been a real friend, the only one in this entire blasted tower, and those long-ago feelings from before he had met the Hawkes had resurfaced whether his conscience liked it or not. He had allowed Karl to continue to kiss him, then returned kisses of his own, and they had gone hand-in-hand into the apprentice dormitories and tumbled into bed.

They hadn’t done  _too_ much, thank the Maker—nothing that he hadn’t done himself with his own hand many a time—but what they had done weighed on his conscience. It was one thing to bring himself to completion with his hand. It was another for the hand of somebody else to do so. It was another still to return the deed for that same person.

_And yet he’s still here in bed,_ Anders thought.  _I don’t want him to leave. Maker forgive me, but I liked that. I haven’t felt that in so long, since Justinian of last year, when I was with Caitlyn, and it mattered with him. He means something to me. He was there for me, emotionally, when nobody else was. He’s helped me feel better, to recover from grief and depression somewhat. He was sympathetic without judging what I did or what I want. I don’t think I can ever go back to encounters that don’t mean anything._

That realization slammed into him like a wave. When he was being affectionate and intimate with Karl, a little voice in the back of his head had told him that it was all right because it wasn’t like doing anything with another  _female_ mage of the Circle, that because Karl was physically different from a woman, it wasn’t like replacing Caitlyn, and therefore this didn’t “count.” That was the sort of thing he could tell himself from the vantage point of no amorous experience with other men, but now he knew that it did count. It did, in both the good and the bad ways. It had mattered—and that increased his guilt.

_I would feel guilty no matter what,_ he told himself sternly.  _I would feel horrible about something meaningless. And yet... this is meaningful... so is this not doubly cheating? But at the same time, it truly didn’t bother me to be friends with him. I felt no guilt over that. It only changed tonight, when I realized it was more than friendship._

_She is in Lothering right now, nursing our son in the middle of the night after being awakened, for all I know,_ he thought, his mind tumbling down that rabbit hole of misery once again.  _That’s what she was doing, and this is what I was doing, finding comfort in the arms of somebody else. How can I look her in the eye now?_

_But... what if I don’t have the chance to look her in the eye?_ his thoughts continued, arriving at the darkest possibility at once.  _What if I never get out? I should value Karl. I shouldn’t push him away in the morning. I wanted this; I allowed this; Maker, I participated. He doesn’t deserve one of my dark moods._

If Karl noticed anything amiss in Anders’ behavior the next morning, he did not comment. They still shared a bed again each night before the Harrowings. It did not go any farther than the first night—there were lines that he did not want to cross, even though he did value the closeness of this relationship—but it helped him to prepare mentally for the Harrowing. Anders’ Harrowing would be first, then, the following day, Karl’s.

* * *

He held his ethereal staff, which he had won from a spirit of Valor in the Fade, and pursued the hunger demon confidently. When he had first seen Valor, he had wondered if this had been the spirit who had come to him in that nightmare, but it had told him that was not the case—and benevolent spirits didn’t lie. Anders was vaguely disappointed; he wished he had learned, at least, what the spirit was, so he would know to whom he was indebted. He had become increasingly certain, since that dream had happened, that the spirit had saved him from becoming an abomination. It was, if not a friend, then certainly a... a what?  _A champion,_ his thoughts supplied.

When he reached the central clearing where he expected to see the hunger demon, he looked around. It appeared absent. However—Anders’ eyes widened in surprise and delight—there was his warrior spirit.

“It is here,” said the spirit in an undertone. “Be on your guard.”

In the next moment, an entity taking the form of Malcolm Hawke walked around an outgrowth.

Anders did not doubt his thoughts for a moment. Malcolm Hawke was  _dead,_ and this was a cruel, sick mockery. This was the demon, taking a form that represented not desires which could yet be fulfilled in life, but his unsatisfied hunger for a lasting relationship with a father, a hunger that never would be fulfilled now that Malcolm was gone. It was despicable, and rather than feeling longing, rather than being stricken against attacking something that resembled his mentor, Anders felt a deep, all-consuming rage that this thing would dare to appear in this guise. He attacked the hunger demon eagerly, the warrior spirit helping him without even being asked.

“Thank you once more,” Anders said, turning to the warrior spirit once it was over.

The spirit inclined its head in acknowledgment.

“Before I have to return... it _was_ you in the nightmare, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“I thought so. Your aura was the same. Who... are you?” That seemed more respectful than asking what _kind_ of spirit it was.

“I am Justice.” The spirit pointed into the distance. “You should not linger.”

“I know.” Knowing, at last, what virtue the spirit represented had satisfied Anders. It made sense, too, as he recollected the spirit’s statements to him during the dream. To have a spirit of Justice on his side, endorsing his view of the situation of mages, watching out for him in the Fade, was surely a good thing. “Thank you, again.”

* * *

“We need to talk.”

Anders had been dreading this. Ever since he and Karl had passed their Harrowings to become full Enchanters of the Circle, he had been avoiding the other man—and Karl had noticed. Dreading what he feared was to come, he turned aside from the bookcase he was pretending to browse and faced Karl.

“I thought that what we had was special and that it meant something to you, but I don’t know anymore. Was this just something to relieve the tension before your Harrowing?”

Anders’ shoulders slumped. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t. It mattered to me too.”

“Anders, just tell me the truth, whatever it is.”

He sighed. “I can’t do it here.”

Karl scowled, but nodded in resignation. “Then can we go someplace where you  _can_ do it? Your new quarters, perhaps?”

“Why my quarters?” he muttered. He did have a dormitory to himself at last, which was nice, but surely Karl did too. Harrowed Enchanters of the Circle had their own rooms. However, he led the other mage out of the library and into the room that was now his. There was no door to close, but he moved to the most private location he could.

Karl gazed out at him expectantly.

“You must have suspected this,” he said in a low voice. “When I escaped last year, I... the people I met... one of them was more than a friend, all right?”

Karl breathed deeply. “I did suspect it... I hoped it wasn’t so... but you still love this person?”

_Oh, Maker._ “Yes,” he acknowledged, glad to finally  _say_ it to someone, to get it out like any normal person would be able to do, not to keep it a secret like it was something shameful—even though this was just the barest amount of detail he could possibly give. “I do.” Seeing Karl’s face fall, he continued, pleadingly, “Please, try to understand. I was  _captured._ I didn’t end it with her; I was  _taken..._ and the circumstances were very bad.”

Karl tried to control his breathing. It was clear that this was painful for him. “How bad?”

_I can’t tell him about the baby,_ Anders thought, feeling a pang for that. He hated having to keep any part of this secret now that he had told some of it, but the fact that he, a mage, had sired a child was something that no one in this tower could know. “Her father went with me to try to confront the Templars who had my phylactery. We were going to put sleep spells on them and take it peacefully. Blighted creatures killed him first. No, actually—they  _infected_ him, and  _I_ had to give him a merciful death.” He put his hands over his face, tears coming to his eyes at the words that tumbled from his lips. He had never told anyone about this before, and this was like reliving it.

“Oh, Anders,” Karl said compassionately. Anders wiped his eyes and faced the other mage; a sad, understanding look filled his face. “I see now why you’ve... been the way you have.”

He heaved a deep, heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. It really has meant a lot to me, what we’ve had—but I just can’t take it any farther, Karl. You should... look at others. I want to keep your friendship, but if you are done with me after this, I understand that too. I’m sorry for... well... using you to get through my own grief.” He hung his head. “It wasn’t what I ever intended.”

“In any relationship, there’s a component of ‘using’ the other person to get through difficult times,” Karl said. He managed a weak smile. “I prefer to think of it as helping each other out. I’m glad to have had what we did, and I’m glad you told me about those six months at last.” He sighed. “I would like to keep your friendship, but it may be difficult—”

Anders closed his eyes.  _I never should have led Karl on. I didn’t mean to, but I should have exercised better control of myself. Now I’m going to lose his friendship too._

“—because Irving and Greagoir have informed me that I’m going to be transferred to the Circle in Kirkwall.”

Anders’ eyes popped open, wide with shock and horror.  _“What?”_ he breathed. His heart began to pound.

“It’s true. That was what the Knight-Commander told me this morning. It’s why I don’t have my own quarters.”

_“Why?”_ Anders burst out, but suddenly he was sure he knew the answer. “It’s because they’ve seen us together,” he answered his own question, his voice suddenly turning low and dark with fury. “They don’t want mages to get too close to each other. It might mean we put a relationship ahead of loyalty to  _them,_ or they  _imagine_ that caring about someone might make us easier prey for demons.”

“Whatever the reason, I’m going to be shipped out tomorrow,” Karl said morosely. “I just—had to know before I left. I had to know where we stood, what we’d had, what it meant.” He hugged Anders. “I’m sorry. I hope you can find her.”

As Anders hugged Karl back, he tried to suppress the sobs that just kept coming.  _I’m going to be alone again,_ he thought.  _What in the Maker’s name am I going to do now?_ He reflected on what Karl had just said, as the answer came to him.  _That was a coded message to make an escape. I’m going to do it. The time has come._

* * *

He made it out, vacillating for a moment about whether to head north, south, or east. Kirkwall’s Circle was infamous among mages, though they spoke quietly to avoid being overheard. It was a bad place, with rules that were even stricter than the ones here. Karl didn’t need to be there.

_But Caitlyn. She is in Lothering, with our son. That comes first. And perhaps once they see I have escaped, they’ll bring him back to Ferelden—or he might manage to escape as well._

He recalled that his phylactery had been sent to Denerim after he passed his Harrowing. Hmm... he had business in Denerim. The Grey Wardens needed to know about the ghouls outside of Lothering... damn it, the summer of last year! It had been too long, and with that thought, an entirely different, Blight-related set of fears filled his mind.

Lothering it was. He headed south.

They caught him in the Bannorn, dragging him out of his camp in the middle of the night. When he saw that the apprehending Templar was again Ser Rolan, who was utterly gleeful, he wanted to punch the man’s teeth out.

* * *

Knight-Commander Greagoir stood away, scowling, as the Tranquil workers finished installing the locking door on Anders’ private bedroom. “If I had my way, you would be spending the next year in that same cell you were locked in after your long apostasy, but the First Enchanter is more merciful and talked me into locking you in your chamber instead. You will do your studying here. If you need books from the library, you will request them from a Tranquil; you will not go there yourself. The same if you need any supplies from the laboratory. Your meals will be brought to you at scheduled times. You will have no social visitors. Do I make myself clear?”

_They’re locking me up. They are imprisoning me in this bedroom for a year, without any contact with anyone except the Tranquil—I presume to show me what they would do to me if I weren’t a Harrowed mage now._ Giving the Knight-Commander the surliest, most spiteful look he could muster, he sneered back, “Perfectly.”

The Tranquil backed away from the newly installed door. Greagoir slammed it and turned the key in the lock with a cold click.

* * *

He found himself sleeping a lot after that. It was as if hope itself had fled him.  _Another year of my life gone,_ he thought.  _Another year of my son’s childhood that I will never get to see. Another year with her, taken from us._ It was too much to cope with by day, and he found that the dreams of the Fade, the visions of her and the child, of her family, sometimes of Karl, were better than being awake even though he knew they were not real.

As he wandered the Fade increasingly often, he felt the presence of the spirit of Justice more and more. At first it was soothing to know that the benevolent warrior spirit had his back, but after a time, he began to mistrust the entity. At last, he confronted it.

“Why are you following me around in the Fade?” he asked, not with a deliberately hostile tone, but very bluntly nonetheless. “You have been interested in me for over a year and a half.”

Justice was not affronted, and it seemed to appreciate the bluntness. “I sense incredible anger and misery over a great injustice,” the spirit explained. “It has drawn me to you. Your feelings have drawn many spirits to you, but the others mean you harm.”

Anders was about to protest that he had passed his Harrowing, but the words died on his lips. He didn’t believe that made a bit of difference. As he had said himself to Carver Hawke once, he didn’t think the Harrowing proved anything except that a mage could refuse one demon at one moment. He considered Justice’s words. “I want to make things right, but I don’t know how,” he said. “Everything I try seems to make things worse—and now I am locked in this room, away from everyone I love, for the greater part of a year still.”

“You will yet succeed at escaping if you plan well.”

“If you’re asking to possess me so that you can ‘help’ me—”

“I am not. I do want to help you, but since it is my nature to see justice done, I will share my ideas freely in a case in which an injustice exists.”

Anders relaxed. “I’m glad you have taken an interest in me,” he confessed. “It looks as if you are the only friend I will be able to talk to until I get out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this got more AU than I had expected, and it’s much more Justice-positive than I ever dreamed I would write (I have been a Justice skeptic). I think it is safe to say that here, Justice saved him. This is going to influence the _Awakening_ parts, needless to say, so while I work out how that’ll go with this AU past between them, the next two chapters will return to Hawke’s viewpoint, beginning back in mid-9:27 when we last saw her.


	7. A World Apart, My Heart in Sad Captivity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is not from a metal song. It’s a slightly altered lyric from the early Renaissance ballad “Greensleeves,” which Leliana sings here.
> 
> This chapter was very difficult to write, and I ended up doing something I wasn’t really planning to do at the end. I think that I had to, because otherwise it was going to be too miserable, but again I will let you be the judges.

_It was happening again._

Caitlyn was in a strange stone room that she had never seen in life but knew very well indeed in the Fade by now. This must be it, then. She waited in resignation for the inevitable to occur.

The door opened, revealing a hooded and cloaked person. She could not see the person’s face, but the voice was that of a man.

“Come,” it intoned, the voice strangely attenuated but familiar—the voice of her brother, more or less. Caitlyn caught a glimpse of the lower part of his face, just his mouth and chin.

She did not want to go. This being was going to take her to the body of her father. That’s what it always had done before. And yet, her feet moved as if they had their own free will. Stone gave way to more stone, a labyrinth of concentric circles, dark little rooms carved out of them.

“You are not really Carver,” she said. “Whatever you are, you take his voice because he brought back my father’s body, but you’re not he. I don’t know if you are a demon or just a memory that my own mind created, but you’re not my brother.”

“It hardly matters what I am.” Caitlyn held her breath as they approached the room where her father’s corpse always, _always_ lay—but the hooded and cloaked being kept walking. A feeling of dread settled in Caitlyn’s gut. Where were they going? What fresh terror and trauma lay in store?

“Here.” The figure stopped in front of a different cell and pushed the door open with a sound of rusty metal squeaking together.

Caitlyn did not want to look inside. Whatever this was, it was surely a horror she had not yet experienced in her dreams. As awful as the deteriorating body of her father was, it was at least  _familiar_ now in a grisly way. She knew what to expect in  _that_ area of the Fade. What was  _this?_ She didn’t want to look. She did not want to enter that room.

_Whatever you do, don’t go into that room,_ she thought.  _You can never unsee whatever is there. Even if it’s only the Fade, it will be seared into your memory for the rest of your life. Don’t go in._

And yet she did.

There was a chair in the room, and a person seated in whose back was turned to her—but she recognized the clothing. She would recognize that feathered mantle anywhere.

“Anders!” she exclaimed. She turned to speak to the Carver-entity, but it was gone.

“Did you require something of me?”

Anders’ tone was flat, empty, dead—completely unlike anything she had ever heard him say. “Anders, it’s me, it’s Caitlyn.”

He remained facing away from her. “Yes, that is your name. Did you require my assistance? I assist the residents of this tower.”

Something was very wrong, and Caitlyn once again wanted to get out of this room. She turned around—but the door was gone. There was no way out. The Fade had reshaped itself to form a solid wall of stone. “Anders, what’s the matter with you? Turn around and look at me!”

He did not hesitate. Rising to his feet, he turned to face her.

His honey-brown eyes were as lifeless as his voice. His face was flat and soft. Caitlyn opened her mouth as the awful truth dawned on her—and as she noticed the mark on his forehead, she screamed.

“Why do you respond this way? I do not understand this response. It is a peaceful state.”

“No, no, _no!”_ she shouted. “It’s _not true!_ It’s a dream, a demon, the _Maker-damned Fade—”_

_The thing that bore Anders’ face disappeared, mercifully, and then the stone room. The Fade was dissolving to black._

Caitlyn awoke in her bed, her eyes wide open, her heart thudding so loudly that she could actually hear it.

_It can’t be true,_ she thought. This was far, far worse than the nightmare of her father’s body. She felt guilty for even thinking that, but it was so. It was a month since his death, and they were still grieving deeply—but he was gone, and they had given him a funeral, which brought some tiny measure of peace. She would miss him for the rest of her life, of course. She still had Mother, but it just wasn’t the same. No one in the family— _no one,_ not even Bethany—had understood her the way Father had. But he  _was_ gone, and nothing could harm him now—not Blighted creatures, not Templars, not anything. He had died a free mage, as he had wanted. He had died in the company of a person he cared about, knowing that one of his children would have a child of her own. And the family knew, more or less, what had happened to him. He had fallen, Anders had tried to give him a pyre, and the Templars had—had—

_No. They took him to the Circle, and that is_ all  _that you know for certain that they did. This is a sick, evil dream, probably a creation of a fear demon. That thing that takes on Carver’s voice probably came up with it because Father’s body doesn’t shock me anymore._

_But it could be true,_ her treacherous mind whispered.  _It could be. Anders had escaped many times before. He was gone for six months this time. They might have been so angry with him that they did make him Tranquil._

_I don’t want to know,_ she thought, staring at the ceiling.  _If they have mutilated and destroyed my love and the father of my unborn child, I do not want to know. Anything would be better than that, even if he escaped the Circle again and chose not to come back to me. Even if he died. I’d rather think anything else. He wouldn’t want me to have to think of him that way, either._

But of course, once she had fixated on the ultimate horror, her brain left her with no choice but to think of it. That twisted image of Anders’ face wormed its way back into her thoughts, sealing itself into her memory forever, just as her Fade-self had known and feared. All the vivacity, the intelligence, and the stubbornness that made him himself had been gone from that face, leaving nothing but a dead, flat affect, gazing at her with empty eyes, caring nothing for her or their son, unable to do magic, unable to feel or dream of anything ever again. She had never seen a Tranquil, but her father—a pang hit her upon thinking of him—had told her and Bethany about them, and the image was all too clear.

A jolt of nausea struck her at the thought—and then the pregnancy-caused state of general malaise and sickness took over, exacerbating it rapidly until she felt the urge to vomit. She scampered down the ladder to the bunk as quickly as she could, throwing open the casement window and emptying her guts. In the lower bunk, Bethany stirred awake.

“Cait?”

She retched out the window, feeling as if her very stomach was turning inside out. Tears streamed down her face from a combination of the dream, the pain of vomiting, and some involuntary physical connection to the vomit reflex that Anders probably could’ve explained....

Bethany touched her sister’s back. “Caitlyn, would you like something to drink?”

She let out a sob as she carefully eased back inside, covering her face in embarrassment. She nodded and sank miserably into the chair.

“It’s all right,” Bethany said, returning in a bit with a cup of apple cider. Her sister accepted it gratefully. “You know what Mother said when this began to happen.”

Caitlyn realized that her sister thought she was only upset from the pregnancy sickness. “It wasn’t just that,” she whispered. “I could handle that.” She placed a hand over her belly protectively. _If that dream was true, this little one is all that’s left of the real Anders. And if it’s not... Maker, let it not be... but I still can’t be reckless. He is so precious. Whatever else I do, I can’t let anything happen to him._ She closed her eyes and felt tears stream down her cheeks.

Bethany placed a hand on her shoulder. “Nightmare?”

She nodded.

“The usual? Or something worse?”

“Much, much worse.” She dabbed at her eyes. Bethany did not pry, Caitlyn noted even amid her own pain, but she felt that she had to explain. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I think it was inside the Circle, or how I imagine it to be based on Father’s descriptions.” She wiped her eyes. “They... it was Anders. They had put that _brand_ on him.” She let out another sob. “It was awful.”

Bethany did not need further elucidation. “Oh, Cait,” she said compassionately. “I’m sorry. I know this probably means nothing, but I don’t think they would have done that.”

She hung her head. “But you don’t know.”

There was nothing Bethany could say to that. She stood beside her sister until Caitlyn finally got to her feet shakily.

“Would you like to share my bed tonight?” Bethany asked. “It’s a single bed, of course, but I think we can squeeze.”

Caitlyn nodded again and gave her little sister a hug. “Thank you.”

The two sisters piled onto the bunk, Caitlyn on the outside in case she had a bout of nausea again. Although it was a warm night, Bethany cuddled her sister to try to bring her any comfort possible.

“I can cast a sleep spell, if you don’t want to be in the Fade again,” she offered.

Being in the Fade was absolutely the last thing Caitlyn wanted right now. Even a “good” dream would be awful, though for different reasons—a happy illusion yanked away. “Please,” she urged.

Bethany readied her magic and sent her sister into deep, dreamless, almost instant sleep. She sighed sadly. She _didn’t_ think that her sister’s worst fear was true, but she had to admit that she had no hard basis for that. It was a hope, nothing more. And she knew very well that it could be a false hope.

Footsteps approached the room. Bethany glanced up as her mother and Carver both appeared at the doorway, Leandra holding a candle.

“Is she all right?” Carver whispered.

Bethany gave them a quick nod. “Mostly. It was a terrible, terrible dream, and then she had to be sick.”

“Poor dear,” Leandra said, compassion filling her voice. “I miss Malcolm so, so much—but I still think she may have had it the worst of any of us.” Tears welled in her eyes. “It’s so unfair.”

There was _certainly_ nothing that any of them could say to contradict that.

* * *

Caitlyn’s nausea continued for several more months until it finally tapered off. It was around the same time that she began to show her condition in earnest and found herself desiring odd foods at odd times. Her mother had warned her of that.

_He could have warned me too,_ she found herself thinking even though she would have preferred not to. Every time something pregnancy-related came up, he came to her mind, the one who should have been her Healer, supporting her and reassuring her all the way. They should have been  _sharing_ this experience. She should be climbing into the extra loft space that had briefly been set aside for him, before Carver had mercifully dismantled the empty bed, and cuddling against  _him_ happily, not piling into her little sister’s too-small bunk bed to cry almost every third night. The thought of his hand on her now bulging abdomen, gently casting a diagnostic spell—feeling his magic throughout her body—

_He’s not here,_ she thought, ending that line of thought before it became too painful and brought her to tears yet again.  _If—if he can, I’m sure he feels the same way and is trying to get back to us._

She liked to think about Anders planning an escape from the Circle tower. It was a pleasant—well, comparatively pleasant—alternative to the other, worse possibilities. If he was alive in the world and...  _could..._ then he definitely would be thinking about how to achieve that, at the very least. Maybe he  _was_ out even right now, as the thought of his escaping crossed her mind. Maybe they would see him again very soon. He knew, after all, that he just had to get to their little cabin on the other side of the woods near Lothering, and he would be safe inside the ward.

_Father’s ward._

On top of everything else, she felt guilty and conflicted about the fact that she seemed to be devoting more unhappy thoughts to Anders, whom she had known for six months, than to her own father. She wanted to think Father would understand, and of course, there  _were_ reasons why she felt this way, why her mind was doing this. As tragic as his fate was, she knew what had happened to him. She did not know exactly what had killed him on the road, but she found that she didn’t need to have that amount of detail. She knew what had become of him. She did not have to speculate about whether he was alive or dead, free or imprisoned, a full person or a mutilated shell. His ashes were in a small urn on the hearth. She, Carver, and Bethany had lit his pyre together the night that Carver had returned, with magic and with a torch that Carver set aflame with a match. She was grieving him, adjusting to life without him.

Well, she was also adjusting to life without Anders, but the difference was that she knew her father wasn’t coming back. It was sad, and increasingly, it made her angry—because  _he_ wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t needed to try to get Anders free of the Circle—but she knew that some modicum of peace was at the end of this tunnel. Her sadness would subside with time, and she would be able to find a poignant, melancholy contentment in thinking about happy memories with her father once again. The anger, too, might be productive... somehow... if there were anything she could actually  _do_ someday about the policies of the Circles. But there could be no peace as long as she had no answers about Anders’ fate. Her thoughts were dogged by both a soaring hope that he could turn up any day and a sickening fear that the Templars of the Circle had destroyed him.

_And... Maker forgive me for even thinking it... but I always expected my parents to die before I did. Though I never wanted to think about it, I did expect that someday I would experience the loss of my parents. It was too early; his life was surely cut short from what it should have been, but... this is not wholly unnatural._

_Father was Mother’s true love,_ Caitlyn thought.  _Mother mourns him in a way that we cannot as his children. But I think I understand some of what she is feeling._

* * *

_Wintermarch 9:28._

Bethany was not much of a Healer, but she was better than her sister, who could not do it at all—and it was utterly impossible that the Hawkes, who still had two apostates in the family, could hire a midwife who would see all the paraphernalia and books about magic in the cabin.

Caitlyn’s delivery late at night in the cold winter was about as unpleasant as she had expected. Her sister had been able to do something, but her knowledge of that school of magic was limited compared to what their father had known, and most especially to what Anders... _knows,_ Caitlyn thought, determined to be positive on this day. _Knows. I hope._

However, once her sister had managed to cast a basic spell to knit her birth injuries back together, and once her mother had given her a warm compress to relax her strained neck muscles, she found herself not thinking about the pain—the physical pain, at least. The emotional pain of the two gaping absences, the two people who should have been here for this birth but were not, was not so easily forgotten—and it was all the more so when Bethany handed her newborn nephew to Caitlyn and she got her first look at the child she had produced.

Her heart nearly broke all over again at the sight of the baby’s hair color. It was honey blond, utterly and completely identical to _his._ She felt a pang for the fact that this baby had apparently not inherited her own color, her father’s color—but at the same time, she liked this. No matter what, she would be able to look at her son and see something of Anders. Still, it hurt so much. He would’ve wanted to see. He would have wanted to be here for this. Even after what had happened to her father, he would have wanted this. _He does,_ she thought determinedly. _Not “would have.” He does. His thoughts are with us right now, and he regrets that he isn’t here. He’s furious that he isn’t. Father is watching this, and Anders is thinking about it. I’m positive of it._

Her thoughts about her father were at least supported by the religion she had been brought up to, and were comforting in a familiar way. It was nice to think about him looking down fondly from beyond the Fade, perhaps aware of what her future held, serene with the knowledge that everything would be all right in the end. Her certainty about Anders’ thoughts was different and a little unsettling. It was irrational, and she couldn’t explain her sudden conviction, but somehow she was utterly certain that Anders was indeed thinking about them this very moment. He couldn’t have known the precise due date, even as a Healer... but somehow, she knew that he was thinking of them, of her, of this baby, right now. That conviction did not bring her comfort, because she was also utterly certain that he was suffering greatly from these thoughts.

_I’ll protect him, love,_ she thought, as if she could reach him through her thoughts.  _I’ll take care of him. You just take care of yourself. Don’t do anything desperate and foolish. We can wait for you._

She had asked her mother for permission before deciding on the name. They would not use the full name—the loss was still too raw—but perhaps one day they could, once he grew into it. _Malcolm Anders Hawke_ was quite a big name for such a little fellow, but “Mal” was the right size.

Caitlyn held him close, closing her eyes in an overwhelming mix of joy and sorrow. _I won’t leave you,_ she promised her baby silently. _I will be here for you, and I will never let anyone take you away no matter who or what you are._

* * *

“We should go into the village,” Leandra said a couple of days later. “It’s only proper to present him at the Chantry.”

Caitlyn glowered at the very word, suppressed rage simmering behind her green eyes, as she clutched her days-old infant to her breast. “That is almost the _last_ place I want to go.”

Leandra gazed at her sympathetically. “I understand your anger, but please, _they_ didn’t cause this. The Revered Mother didn’t... the Sisters didn’t... even the Lothering Templars didn’t. He should be presented there. It will be tough for him in life if there is no record of his naming at a Chantry....”

“Both of his parents are mages,” she said stubbornly, refusing to meet eyes with her mother, staring instead at her son’s tiny blond head. “Most likely, he is too.”

“But if he isn’t....”

“You know what his second name is. I’m not putting that in Chantry records. Not a chance. I might as well draw a target on his head. They know Anders was in Lothering. They’d guess immediately.”

“We’ll keep that to ourselves, then,” she urged.

Bethany touched her sister’s arm gently. “Caitlyn, you haven’t left the house in weeks. It’s not healthy. Let’s just go into the village. You can decide then if you want to go to the Chantry.” She looked up and gave a fixed look to her mother. “And he _is_ your child, so it is _your_ decision, not Mother’s. But let’s at least get out of the house.”

She sighed. It was true; she had not wanted to leave the house once the coldest part of winter set in, especially since she had been so close to term. But the family house in winter now brought out some very painful memories from a year ago, memories in which she had been wallowing on purpose, but which were making her feel bad from sadness, anxiety, and—increasingly—anger. Anders knew when she was due, approximately. He had escaped several times before. Why hadn’t he managed it when she needed him most?

She knew she was being unfair to him, that since he hadn’t come to them, it was because he _couldn’t—_ for whatever that reason might be—rather than because he did not want to. But such were the increasingly dark and angry paths that her mind was starting to tread, now that she was a new mother and he was still gone. Perhaps Bethany was right and she did need to get out.

She rose from her chair. “All right,” she said heavily. “I must bundle him up, though.”

* * *

The town was not nearly as bustling as it was during the warm months, but the establishments that were open had made that clear with their signage. The tavern, of course, was always open, as was the general store. But to the Hawkes’ surprise, two additional signs were tacked to the door of the weaponsmith.

“A litter of mabaris!” Bethany exclaimed in delight and surprise. It was odd for a mabari to whelp in winter, but someone’s clearly had.

Carver noticed the second sign more than the first. “The army of Ferelden is sending out a recruitment drive in spring,” he said, beaming. He turned to his family. “All levels of skill welcomed.”

“This is your chance to train with a greatsword, then,” Bethany approved.

Caitlyn was pleased for him, since he wanted to do this and the urge had lasted a year. It seemed to be real and she was happy that he would finally have the opportunity... but she was more interested in the puppies herself. “That’s great, Carver! And let’s see the litter too,” she urged. “Maybe one of us will imprint.”

“I hope so,” Leandra said as they entered the smithy. “It would be such a mood boost for all of us....”

Holding little Mal close to her chest, unashamed, Caitlyn strode to the smith’s assistant. “The puppies,” she began. “Do you still have them?”

The assistant nodded. “Five of them. None of them have imprinted yet, and we won’t let anyone take them unless that happens, you know.”

“Let anyone take them? They aren’t for sale?”

“Well, no,” he said. “We didn’t pay for them ourselves. They came from the bann’s manor.”

“Why didn’t the bann want a litter of mabaris?”

The man shrugged. “His kennelmaster says that his bitch ‘mismated’ with a mabari he didn’t want to breed with her,” he replied.

“But they _are_ mabari?”

“Oh yes. I don’t know what the bann was trying to breed... his man says they were the ‘wrong color’ for the bann, but they look good to me. Why don’t you take a look? Maybe one of ’em will like you.”

The Hawkes followed the assistant to a back room, where a litter of puppies played together on the floor. At the approach of people, they sat at attention, staring at their new visitors with intelligent eyes.

One particularly intrepid puppy, a light brown one, stepped forward to Caitlyn and gave a high-pitched yap. She got on her knees, passing Mal to her mother in case the dog disturbed the newborn. The puppy nosed against her outstretched hand before letting out another, very happy yap and wagging its tail. Its littermates were uninterested in the other Hawkes and completely accepting as Caitlyn picked up the puppy, eliciting another bark of pleasure from it.

“Well!” exclaimed the smith’s assistant. “That’s the quickest I’ve seen!” He glanced at the puppy. “That one’s a male. He has been really skittish until now. That’s an imprint if I ever saw one!”

* * *

Caitlyn’s new puppy was collared and leashed quickly, since she had to carry her baby and an imprinted mabari should not be handled excessively by anyone other than its master, but the puppy did not actually need a leash to know to follow its new family around. Carver, meanwhile, had spent time talking with the smith himself about army recruitment and was elated.

Caitlyn was feeling good enough that she was now amenable to her mother’s idea. As they approached the Chantry, she turned to her family. “I’ll do this,” she said in a quiet voice. “They won’t let a dog inside, though, so the rest of you should find a warm place to wait.”

The puppy let out a plaintive yip as his new mistress entered the building without him, but he understood that she was coming back soon. The rest of the Hawkes, and the dog, went to a nearby shop to wait for her.

As soon as Caitlyn stepped inside, she heard a woman’s voice in very low, very quiet prayer. In front of all the benches, a woman dressed in Chantry robes knelt, murmuring words. Her back was turned, so Caitlyn could see clearly that she had short reddish hair—not as vividly red as Caitlyn’s, but definitely a flaming hue. As she approached, she detected a heavy Orlesian accent in the woman’s voice.

The—sister?—stood up, suddenly aware that she had company. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I did not hear you approach! Forgive me.”

“No, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Caitlyn said at once. In her arms, baby Mal stirred, letting out a mumble of complaint. “I was here to... well, to register my son. I suppose I should see the Revered Mother for that...?”

“Oh, he is adorable,” exclaimed the sister, gazing at the baby’s face. “And if you wish to see her, then of course I will fetch her, but I must tell you that she is unwell today and did not come to the Chantry. You may not wish to expose your little one to sickness in this cold, no? However, you need not delay! I can do the rite for you!”

Caitlyn was a bit taken aback by the sister’s exuberance. “I... suppose so, then,” she said, feeling overwhelmed. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t think I have ever seen you before.”

The sister looked genuinely abashed. “I am sorry—you must think I have the worst manners in Ferelden. I am Sister Leliana. I am indeed new here.”

“I am Caitlyn Hawke, and this is Malcolm.” She gave the sister a brief smile. “You came from Orlais, I guess?”

Sister Leliana nodded. “I lived a... very different kind of life in Orlais, and I wished to retire from it to a life of peace and quiet contemplation, so I became a lay sister and came here. Your village is pretty and quaint, yes?”

“By which you must mean ‘simple and rustic,’” Caitlyn said with a wry grin.

“Oh no!” Leliana protested, and her voice sounded sincere. “There are many kinds of beauty. Something does not have to be golden and studded with gemstones to be pretty. Lothering is a very sweet little town. I like it here.” She peered over baby Mal again, as he was awakening. “But we have business, do we not? Come, we will take him to the sacred brazier—unless you are waiting on someone else? The baby’s father?”

_Yes, I am waiting on him,_ she thought with a pang of sadness. To Leliana she replied, “His father... is not here.”

Leliana glanced at the sapphire ring that Caitlyn wore on the finger that one would normally wear a wedding band. Her eyebrows momentarily knitted together in confusion at the sight, given the most obvious possible implications of Caitlyn’s words—that she was a widow, that the baby’s father had abandoned her, or that she did not know who the father was. The presence of the ring seemed to disprove all of those, and Caitlyn could see curiosity burning in Leliana’s sharp eyes as to the story here, but Leliana had the manners not to ask. “Then let us do it,” she said kindly.

They had just finished the sacrament of naming when Leliana realized that two more people had entered the Chantry. Giving Mal back to Caitlyn, she turned around and welcomed them, introducing herself and asking if she could help them with anything.

“We’re just here for our sister,” Carver explained. Bethany accompanied him, but Leandra—and the puppy—were still waiting elsewhere.

“You do have family,” Leliana said to Caitlyn, smiling compassionately at her. “I am glad. A new mother should not be alone.”

“My family was... sadly reduced in size last year... but I am not alone, no.” _He is,_ she thought. _If he still lives, if he still feels, he is alone._ Her heart hurt at the thought of it.

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Leliana. “He... died, then? Last year? Forgive me if I am prying.”

_“My_ father died last year.  _His_ father is... missing.”  _And I’ve said too much already,_ she thought.  _I should have just claimed that they were both deceased, but I didn’t want to say it for fear that it might be true now._ “Thank you for your kindness, Sister Leliana.” Her heart beating in sudden anxiety, she pulled her baby close and left the Chantry with her siblings quickly.

* * *

Caitlyn named her new mabari puppy Baldwin, “bold friend” in one of the old tongues of Ferelden. It seemed fitting for the puppy’s inquisitive nature that, if the smithy assistant could be believed, only had appeared for her. Although the puppy was bonded to her now, he would play with the rest of the family as long as his mistress was nearby. Caitlyn smiled contentedly at the pleasant scene, Carver and Bethany tossing toys to the exuberant puppy as she nursed Mal next to her mother.

“I’m glad I went to town today,” she said quietly. “Now we have a dog again, at least.”

Leandra touched her shoulder. “I am too. You can’t help him by being sad and miserable all the time. He will try to return as soon as he can. I’m sure of it.”

“Unless he _never_ can now.” She sighed. “I just wish I knew. I don’t know whether I should hope or grieve, Mother, so I’m doing both—and neither. I can’t let him go as long as I have hope, but I can’t embrace that hope fully as long as I have those two dark fears for him, death and....” She trailed off; the second fear was still almost impossible to voice. _“That’s_ why this is so hard.”

Leandra was silent for a moment before answering. “I think you will have an answer someday.”

_Knock, knock._

All four Hawkes old enough to understand gazed at the door, startled. Caitlyn’s heart skipped a beat. Was this it? Had someone finally come to take her and Bethany away? Or was it—could it be—

Leandra rose to her feet and opened the door shakily. Caitlyn gazed at the threshold. She almost didn’t remember at first—but there was the Chantry sister she had met that day. Leliana. That was her name. On her guard, feeling her hackles rise at the sight, she passed Mal to Bethany and went to the door to confront the woman, feeling her face set in anger as she approached.  _I knew I said too much. She was curious about something that was none of her business, and she must have done some research and drawn the correct conclusions. I won’t stand for it._

“Why are you here?” she demanded of Leliana without further prelude. Beside her, Leandra gasped, shocked at her daughter’s rudeness, but Caitlyn continued without pause. “How do you even know where we _live?_ Did you make inquiries after I left? What is your _business_ here—and are you alone?” She gazed past Leliana, seeing no one else, but did not let her guard down.

Leliana was not taken aback, but instead, seemed to have been sadly resigned to such a reception. She opened her arms and hands wide. “I have not brought or told anyone else,” she said. “On my life, I swear it. I  _did_ go to the village records to look up your family, because I wanted to help you after what you told me today.”

“I’ve never had an act of charity from—from _one of you_ in my life,” Caitlyn snarled. Her mother sighed in surrender and defeat, ceding the conversation to her aggressive daughter.

“That, I can sadly believe,” Leliana said. “There are many sisters, brothers, and priests who are very... sanctimonious. But I truly have come here to offer succor and... and comfort, if you wish. Perhaps even _help,_ since you said that your child’s father was missing. I have... skills... from my life before I became a lay sister.”

“I don’t believe you. This is all far too convenient,” Caitlyn said. “And nobody does big favors for other people that they just met. What is your real agenda, sister? What _else_ did you find out about my family?”

Leliana shivered in the cold night air but continued to explain herself in resignation. “I... have a suspicion... about your family, but—”

“Speak it.”

Leliana steeled herself before finally answering the question. “You are very isolated. The few townspeople I asked said that you had kept to yourselves for years. Since your parents had three children, that would suggest that it is not a matter of a couple or single individual preferring isolation, but rather, that there is something you are hiding. Is someone in this family a secret mage?”

Caitlyn was struck dumb, but her sudden silence answered the question for Leliana.

“I do not share the narrow views of many of my fellows,” Leliana pleaded. “I would _never_ tear apart a family for that. I worked with an apostate elven mage who loathed the Circle of Magi, before I became a sister. Please.”

Caitlyn turned aside, unable to speak or even look at Leliana. Leandra took over. “Of course you may come in,” she said kindly. “Please forgive my daughter.”

All three Hawke siblings were on edge as Leliana sat down in a chair. “I have brought no one,” she insisted. “Nor have I told anyone.”

“The others at the Chantry won’t go looking for you?” Caitlyn finally managed to say.

“We do not disturb each other in evenings. It is a time for quiet contemplation or acts of charity. Tonight I have chosen the latter.”

“And what exactly _are_ you here for?” she asked. She sighed heavily as she accepted her baby from Bethany again, holding him protectively. “I suppose my mother is right that I was hostile, but you have to understand... I’m going to be suspicious of someone I met by happenstance turning up and declaring that she can ‘help’ find a person because of mysterious ‘skills.’”

Leliana nodded penitently. “I suppose you are right. I allowed my enthusiasm to carry me away. It was a strange offer, yes? But that does not mean it is a false one.”

“Let’s slow down,” Caitlyn said.

“You are right again.” Leliana gazed out. “So... you are mages? All of you?”

“No. I am, and my sister is. My father was too.” She was not sure why she suddenly trusted Leliana with that information, but the woman had clearly already figured out a large part of it—and it was peculiar; Caitlyn knew that she _might_ be lying about being sympathetic to mages, but if so, she was a very good liar indeed. There was nothing false about her tone or expression.

“And... the father of your little son?”

Caitlyn held Malcolm close, suddenly protective and distrustful again. “What of it? He’s not here. And I have some questions for  _you_ now.”

“I promise you, I will keep all your secrets for you, because I do not wish you to come to harm.”

“I’m sure you don’t. But most in the Chantry don’t think that the Circles _are_ harmful.”

“I do not agree, as I told you. It would obviously be harmful to break apart an innocent family. Your father must have lived in the world for many years without causing harm, and you and your sister too. He must have taught you, yes?”

“He did.” She sighed, suddenly affected emotionally by the flood of memories.

“Why must mages be taken away from their families to receive instruction and training?” Leliana said. “Your father could teach you, and I am sure it is just as well as the Circle Enchanters could have. But,” she collected herself, “you had questions for me.”

“What, exactly, did you do in Orlais? And why did you come to Lothering?”

“I was a minstrel—no, I was a bard,” Leliana admitted as the Hawkes all drew back, eyes wide. “I played the Game until I... could not anymore. A Revered Mother of Orlais helped me to escape that life. I came to Lothering because of what I said; it is a quiet, peaceful, pretty little town, very unlike Val Royeaux. It is just what I needed.”

“A bard,” Caitlyn repeated. She stared hard at Leliana. “And you expect that to make me _more_ likely to trust you?”

“I do not expect that, but it is still the truth. Would you have had me lie to you?”

She sighed again. “No.”

“I realize I am asking you to trust me on very little,” Leliana said, her hands open wide again as she spoke to all the Hawke family, “but I will tell you this, for you to believe if you can, for it is also the truth. The apostate elven mage of whom I spoke at your doorway was also trapped with me at last, and the Revered Mother who rescued me also rescued him. She did not turn him over to the Circle. I _do not_ see things the way the... traditionally-minded... in the Chantry do.”

The Hawkes were all silent except for the occasional yips of the puppy Baldwin and the quiet, mild complaints of Mal. Finally Caitlyn spoke again, and her voice was almost breaking as she did. “He was a mage too. They captured him and took him away last summer.”

Leliana gazed compassionately at her. “I’m so sorry.”

She felt tears spring to her eyes again. “My father went with him to try to help him. He died first—not at the Templars’ hands, apparently, because my brother found his body laid out to be immolated.” She rubbed her eyes. “I have no idea what happened to him. To... my baby’s father, I mean.” For some reason, she did not want to say Anders’ name to Leliana, though she knew it would make no difference now. “I have nightmares that they took him to the Circle Tower and made him Tranquil.”

“This happened last summer?” Leliana asked.

“In Justinian.”

“Then I do not think they have done that. I am not just saying that to comfort you. The... Tranquil”—she noted Caitlyn’s grimace, but it had to be said—“cannot lie or refuse to answer questions. If he was with you long enough to fall in love with you, they would have asked questions about his activities when they caught him. If he had no will in the matter anymore, he would have told them about you and your family by now. Whatever became of him, I do not believe it was that.”

She took a deep shaky breath, nodding slowly as Leliana’s reasoning filtered into her brain. “You’re right. We would have been paid a visit by Templars by now.” A great weight seemed to lift off her chest, and she burst out suddenly with gratitude. “Thank you. My father could have told me that, but he is gone. I didn’t know. I didn’t even _think_ of it. None of us did. Thank you so much—and I _am_ sorry for being so hostile to you.”

“I understand why you were, and it is all right—I forgive you. It was a fortunate chance that you came to the Chantry while I was in prayer—but no, it may not have been chance. Perhaps Andraste directed our meeting so that you could have hope again,” Leliana suggested ingenuously.

Caitlyn knew now that Leliana meant well, and was speaking innocently, but this was one thing she didn’t want to hear. “Sister Leliana,” she said stiffly. This was difficult for her; a part of her suddenly wanted to snap at Leliana again with bitter cynicism, but it was nonetheless apparent that this woman meant well and was a kind spirit. “Please do not speak of Andraste to me right now. This happened because of people serving Andraste. My father died because he went with my child’s father, and what happened to him was _done_ in Andraste’s name.”

Leliana looked away, pained, then faced Caitlyn again. “I know, and I think it was wrong. There are many who believe that they serve her... but some of them are mistaken. It would not be the first time that evil is done in her name, and yes, that is a harsh word, but when I see what happened to your family... I think it is a fitting word. It is evil to tear apart loving couples, to destroy families, to sever the bond of parent and child without cause, and to me... magic alone is not cause. Your father trained you, and if your son is a mage, I am sure you and your sister will teach him well. If a young mage has no one who can do that, then the Circles serve a purpose... but there is no need to lock them away for life even then.”

Caitlyn laughed sadly. “Then we do agree. But you must be nearly alone in your profession to think that.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I am definitely not the only person in the Chantry who disagrees with what is done to people like you. There are other interpretations of Our Lady’s words that magic is meant to serve man. In fact... I think that the Circle, as practiced, violates the spirit of her command, since mages _cannot_ serve others with their talents if they are locked up.”

“The people who believe as you do must not have power in the Chantry, then.”

“It is true that most of those in power think very... traditionally.” Her words were sad.

“It seems to me that we need to make _you_ the Divine someday,” Caitlyn said daringly.

Leliana finally laughed. “I am only a lay sister! But my mentor in the Chantry is a powerful priest in Orlais, and I mentioned her mercy for an apostate mage... so there is hope in the future.” She smiled. “Now, I also mentioned that I was a minstrel and a bard. To be very specific, I came here because I hoped to offer music to lighten your hearts. Do any of you sing or play?”

Bethany spoke up shyly at last. “I play the lute a little bit.”

“Excellent!” Leliana exulted. “Do you know... hmm. I suppose I should not sing Orlesian ballads here. A Fereldan song, perhaps? What about ‘Greensleeves’?” She glanced at Caitlyn, then Leandra. “If it is too sad....”

“It isn’t,” Leandra said at once. “That is, I cannot speak for my daughter, but I think it’s a lovely song.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn croaked. “It’s about a woman, too. My mother and I... lost men. It won’t make me think of... him.” She gave Leliana a sad smile. “It’s a beautiful ballad.”

Bethany returned from the bedroom with her lute, which she handed to Leliana. “I’ll just sing along,” she said. “I doubt I can play as well as a professional minstrel.”

“I am happy to hear you later, though,” Leliana said, accepting the instrument, “and offer you lessons if you would like.” She strummed it and began the song.

Caitlyn could not quite manage to sing along. The words were very sad even though the verses of the ballad did not make her think specifically of Anders—or of her father, for that matter. It was sad in a beautiful way, though, and she was glad to be part of the audience for Leliana and her sister. She found herself wondering if Leliana might be singing of herself... or of some woman in her past.

When she was finished, she handed Bethany back her lute and turned to Caitlyn again. “That elven mage I know,” she said. “He has connections to the Mages’ Collective, a secret organization for peaceful apostates in Ferelden. They may be able to acquire a list of all mages of the Fereldan Circle and their... status. You would... have answers of a sort, that way.”

“So you really _can_ help me find him.”

Leliana chuckled. “I cannot promise anything, but if I can put the skills that I once used for evil to a good purpose, I will be happy to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The puppy is indeed Hawke’s dog in the game.
> 
> One more chapter of Hawke’s viewpoint, which will contain the result of Leliana’s research, her relationship with Leliana, how and why that ends, Leliana’s departure with the Grey Wardens, and the destruction of Lothering. You know what that will mean, sadly.
> 
> After that are two (I think it’ll require two) chapters of Anders as a Grey Warden. Then—finally—Kirkwall.


	8. In the Arms of the Sacred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hawke/Leliana parts of this chapter are also not explicit. As I said, I do know the reason that people are reading this story and it is not for them.
> 
> The chapter title is from “Angel Down” by Lady Gaga on _Joanne_.
> 
> As a warning, this chapter is probably yet another emotional roller-coaster.

Little Mal’s hair was changing color. Three months after his birth, he was developing a reddish tint, a blend between his parents’ colors.

Every day that passed was painful. Was Anders alive? If so, was he himself? Her certainty and relief that she had felt upon hearing Leliana’s reasoning had faded slightly. In not quite two months, it would be a year since she had last seen him. How had he not managed to escape the Circle in such a long stretch of time, knowing that he had a child? Perhaps he hadn’t been made Tranquil—in her cooler-headed moments, Caitlyn was comforted by Leliana’s sensible words about that once again—but so many other things could have happened to him. He could have given in to a demon in the Fade and become possessed, in which case the Templars would have put him to death. He certainly would be suffering and tormented, potentially susceptible to them.

Or... _was_ he suffering? When they had first become lovers, she had been so certain that he was sincere in what he told her, that he was no longer interested in meaningless nights with prostitutes or other customers who hired them, or fooling around with other mages of the Circle. Yet he _had_ done those things in his past. Maybe he had reverted back to that and found it satisfying after all. Maybe he was even relieved not to have the responsibility of a family. Maybe, after apparently witnessing her father’s death, he was too afraid, too cowardly to return to Lothering and face them. Maybe he hadn’t escaped because he hadn’t _wanted_ to.

_Leliana’s apostate contact can surely get the answers,_ she thought.  _He can get that list, and I’ll know, at least, whether Anders is alive or dead, Tranquil or not, Harrowed or still an apprentice... locked up or escaped again._

She wasn’t sure what she would do with that knowledge, and in a way, she dreaded it, but she knew that she had to know. What she did, what she thought of it, would depend on what this mage uncovered.

* * *

At last Leliana returned to the Hawke cabin not only to play music, tutor Bethany in playing the lute, or cook Orlesian-style for them—but to bring the long-awaited documents for Caitlyn.

“This contains a list of all living mages of the Fereldan Circle,” she explained, handing a sealed scroll to her. “They are marked as Enchanters, apprentices, Tranquil, or... missing. If they are assigned elsewhere, such as a noble house, their location is also noted.”

Caitlyn accepted the scroll and broke the seal. Holding her breath, afraid of what she might see—or not see—she unrolled the scroll and read the names.

_He’s alive,_ she thought when she saw his.  _He’s alive, and not Tranquil. He’s set to be Harrowed at the beginning of Kingsway._

“Good news?” Leliana inquired.

Caitlyn realized that her expression must be betraying it. She nodded. “He is to be Harrowed in Kingsway. I... don’t know what to think of that.” She gazed out, rolling the scroll back up, her brows furrowing. “I have no doubt that he will pass. But he’s not missing, which means he didn’t escape again... and since he’s set to do that, he seems to have... accepted the Circle.” Her voice broke at the end.

“But he may be biding his time,” Leliana said. “He may have decided that his best chance of getting out is to become an Enchanter and get an outside assignment. What is his specialty?”

“He’s a Healer, and a very good one.”

“Then they may wish to assign him to serve a noble. They rarely keep good Healers in the Circle, because the nobility pay well for those skills. I am sure he will write to you if that happens. That may be his plan.”

Calmed slightly, she nodded. “I... suppose so. Kingsway, though... that’s a long time off.” She glanced back at her baby, who was asleep in a large basket. “I just wanted him to see our child while he’s still a baby, and if it takes that long, I don’t know if he can.”

Leliana gave her a sad look. “For what it is worth, I am sorry that this has been done to you—to all of you.”

Caitlyn gave her a hug. “Thank you—for everything you have done.”

* * *

_Three months later._

Mal crawled on his chubby arms and legs, smiling at his mother as he reached her. His first trek alone concluded with a laugh and a smile, as if he knew he had accomplished something.

She beamed and picked him up, bumping her nose gently against his and getting another giggle from him at the affectionate act. “You’re such a smart boy!” she cooed. Her mother, sister, and brother all smiled to varying degrees, Leandra the most and Carver the least—though she knew that for Carver, it was simply because he was going through a stage of not wanting to appear too “soft.” She cuddled him until he squirmed away, eager to crawl again, though her heart broke for the one who was locked up in a tower and had now missed another irreplaceable memory.

* * *

_The end of Kingsway._

There was no note, no visit, and Caitlyn was anxious and angry again—anxious because the idea she had dismissed, that he might fail his Harrowing, was gnawing at the back of her mind once again, and angry because of the possibility that he might not try to get out of the Circle at all, whether lawfully or by an escape.

Leliana knew who he was by this time. In the early summer, Caitlyn had opened up about that and told the sister his name and some of his history. If Caitlyn wanted her to ask her apostate friend again—Sketch was the name he went by—it could be done more quickly if he had only one mage of whom to uncover information rather than every mage in the Fereldan Circle.

“I don’t want him to put his situation at risk with too many inquiries about this,” Caitlyn told Leliana when she made that offer again.

“He would not do this if it were risky,” Leliana said. “Sketch has had his fill of danger, but he is always happy to help mages.”

* * *

Mal wobbled to his feet and nervously toddled across the floor to the side of the divan for the first time.

“Oh, look at you!” Caitlyn exclaimed in delight, giving him a hug as he squealed with happy, proud laughter. “Look at _you!_ You walked so well!”

Leandra, Bethany, and Carver glanced up from the kitchen table, smiling. “Barely ten months. He’s very precocious. It won’t be long before he says his first words,” Leandra remarked.

Caitlyn hugged her child close, feeling a hard lump form in the bottom of her throat.

* * *

The nights were again cold, and the leaves had faded from their vivid autumnal colors to a bland brown. Dragon 9:28 was rapidly ending, and as First Day approached, Caitlyn found herself thinking of the fact that it would soon be two years since she first met Anders. _Two years,_ she thought. _A year and a half since I last saw him. What is the matter? It should be easier now if he became an Enchanter. Why hasn’t he come back to me, as he promised? He did promise. Those were the last words he said to me. I thought he meant them. I believed him. Anders, you haven’t kept your promise._ At last, the hard, cold thought that she had been resisting for so long blasted through her mind with the force of a gale. _You have not kept your word to me._ She fingered the sapphire ring that she still wore, feeling a sudden surge of bitterness at its presence. _Is that why you didn’t want to make an official proposal to me, just a promise that you would do it later? Because you weren’t sure even then?_

Leliana arrived at the Hawke cabin with news. Her face was tense and lined. Caitlyn instantly suspected that the news was not good, and her heart began to pound in anxiety.

“It’s probably not what you fear,” Leliana assured her at once, seeing her expression. “But... Sketch passed word to me that he’s still listed as residing in the tower at Kinloch Hold, despite having passed his Harrowing and becoming an Enchanter.”

Caitlyn took Leliana’s hand and pulled her into the house, sitting down on the divan beside her. Mal toddled and crawled up, reaching for his mother’s knees. She smiled gently at him and lifted him onto the seat beside her.

“I... must confess that this is not the news I expected to hear from Sketch,” Leliana continued, avoiding Caitlyn’s face. “I have never heard of a Healer being denied the opportunity to serve Ferelden after the Harrowing. Are you... certain that he would not have specialized in anything else? Something that, perhaps, he would need to stay in the Circle tower to research?”

“He could do some elemental magic,” she said, “but yes, I’m certain that he would have specialized in healing.” She scowled at her lap. “I was just thinking about this, Leliana. He’s not coming back because he doesn’t _want_ to come back.”

“I don’t think—”

She took the other woman’s hands and gazed sadly at her. “I should have faced it long ago. He escaped many times before he met me. He even made it to Denerim more than once. He has a _son_ out here, Leliana, and yet he hasn’t managed it this time. What does that imply? He has remained in the tower because there is something—or, more likely, some _one,_ or perhaps even more than one ‘someone’ _—_ that he finds more compelling.”

“You say that because you are angry,” Leliana said. “I know it is your nature to find solace in anger, but....”

“I’m saying it because it’s the only explanation that fits—unless you have another one?” She stared hard at Leliana. “If he wanted an outside appointment, surely he could get one, could he not?”

Leliana sighed. “I presumed so, but perhaps, if he made the Templars angry enough....”

Caitlyn sighed. “You just keep giving me hope.”

Leliana smiled at her, her blue eyes twinkling. “Would you prefer that I did not?”

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” she said heavily, and the smile faded from Leliana’s face at the realization that Caitlyn was serious. “I’ve appreciated everything you have done. I’m glad you were able to find proof that he wasn’t dead or Tranquil. Even if he doesn’t want to be with me, I’m glad that he is alive and well. But I just feel now that the hopes you’re giving me are false ones and I would be better off accepting....” She trailed off. “It’s unhealthy for me to obsess over him for this long.”

“You were in love with him,” Leliana said gently.

“Love doesn’t always last,” she replied, her words cold, harsh, and bitter. “He has been gone for a year and a half. He’s in that tower, apparently safe, but we can’t devise any reason why he wouldn’t leave if he wanted—so what’s the logical explanation? That’s _not_ what he wants.” She sighed heavily once again. “You were a bard. You must know better than anyone that people are fickle, their emotions easily changeable, their promises often worthless.” She twisted the ring on her finger, glowering into space.

She was not sure why she was doing this, saying these bitter, spiteful words. A part of her felt guilty for it, as if each and every one of them was a dagger stab into him even though he could not hear her. That part of her mind whispered that if she ever _did_ see him again, these words would make it harder for her to take him back. Even if he never knew that she had said them, _she_ would know, and her guilt would be a wall between them. But the rest of her mind, the angry part, liked hearing them—liked thinking of what Anders’ face would look like if he heard her say them, liked the image of him crumpling in pain as vengeance for the pain that his absence had inflicted on her for so long. She was _sick_ of hurting. Someone else should hurt now, and who better than the one whose absence had caused it all? It was arguably his fault that her father was gone, too.

Leliana rose from her seat. “You are speaking in anger and spite,” she said. Her words and tone were compassionate, but it was clear that the discussion was at an end. “I understand why, but I cannot join you in this. I will leave you for the night. Please think on what I have said, though.”

“What in particular?” Caitlyn asked, the anger fading from her words at the question. “Leliana, you can’t expect me to hold onto something with such uncertainty. I know that you believe deeply in the love of the Maker, and that this influences you to be a kind person yourself, but... even if _that_ is true, it doesn’t follow that the love of people will be.”

“You are saying this as a defense,” Leliana said quietly, not meeting Caitlyn’s eyes. “You desperately need an ending, and so you are devising one yourself at last. It is easier for you to let him go if you can convince yourself that he does not care anymore.”

“It is,” she agreed, “but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” She gazed at Leliana as the latter headed for the Hawkes’ door. “Leliana, I’ll make you a promise. If your friend Sketch can find out any information about _why_ Anders is inside that tower, and it proves me wrong, I’ll admit that I was wrong. But right now, neither of us has an alternate explanation for why he isn’t here.”

* * *

“Mm,” mumbled Mal, staring in deep concentration at his mother’s face.

She held her breath. Was this what it seemed like it might be? That little baby face was contorted into an adorable scowl of deep thought. Mal _was_ very intelligent; of that she was sure, and even though he had not quite reached his first birthday, he still might just be working out how to—

“Ma. Ma-ma.”

She beamed. “That’s _right,_ love! I am your mamma. And you are Mal.”

* * *

Leliana was finally defeated when she next brought an update to the Hawke cabin. “I am sorry,” she said. Her eyes were hollow. “He is still on record as being in Kinloch Hold, and my source cannot get any information about the reasons for this.”

Caitlyn exhaled. “It’s all right. Thank you, Leliana. I... won’t ask you to do this again. He has made his decision, I think—and the Mages’ Collective has better things to do.”

Leliana did not want to agree with Caitlyn; she still thought it was possible that there was another explanation. However, there were only two possibilities: Either Caitlyn was right, and he was inside the Circle because that was where he wanted to be; or he could not get out—either by escaping or appointment—because he was under extremely close supervision or full lockdown, even as an Enchanter. Leliana still thought that Anders might have angered the Templars so greatly, especially if he _had_ attempted to escape during the past year and a half, that they were not affording him the same privileges that they would other Harrowed Healers. But Caitlyn did not want to think that, and Leliana understood. Her friend was tired of waiting, tired of uncertainty, tired—in a way—of hope itself. At this point, it was actually easier for Caitlyn to think that Anders was choosing to stay than to continue to hold onto the hope that so far had failed her over and over. _It is odd to me that she would take greater comfort in despair, but if she does, it would be cruel of me to insist that she hold onto a feeling that has given her nothing but pain and disappointment,_ Leliana thought. _If he does make it out someday, she will be overjoyed then. For now, perhaps she is right and it is best for her to stop hoping._

“Excuse me for a moment,” Caitlyn said, getting up suddenly and going to the bedroom that she shared with Bethany. Leliana waited in the common room of the cabin, strumming her lute, letting her have whatever private moment she needed.

Alone in the bedroom, Caitlyn pulled off the ring and stared at it. She had certainly taken it off before, many times; silver tarnished and she had needed to clean it. But this was different. She gazed at the object, scowling—and then shoved it roughly and aggressively to the bottom of her box of small personal effects. _I’m done with it,_ she thought in hostile anger. _If he comes back, he can explain himself first before I put that thing on my finger again._

The hair ornament that Anders had made for her caught her attention. Irritated, she shoved it to the bottom of the box too, next to the ring—and suddenly a flood of memories washed through her thoughts: Anders stroking her hair, braiding it, pinning the ornament into it, his fingers tangling in it as he ran them through her long locks.... She glanced across the tiny room at Bethany’s sewing box. There would be a pair of shears there. She rummaged through it until she found them.

_Why am I doing this?_ she asked herself as she held the first hank of hair between them before the small oval mirror.  _If I believe my own conclusion, he won’t see my hair again. He won’t get to be shocked and upset that I did this... but even if he could, why should I cut my hair to make him angry? It’s my hair. He shouldn’t have that kind of power over me.... but—_ she realized— _that’s not the point at all._ She gazed at her reflection.  _I didn’t take the ring off to spite him either. I did it because it was painful to look at it. It’s painful, for now, to see my hair this length. It brings back memories that hurt to think of._

She slashed through the lock of hair. Long strands of vermilion hair fell to the floor, leaving a short lock that hung just to the bottom of her earlobe.

She cut and cut, trying to make it look decent and even. When at last it was satisfactory to her, she bent down to gather up the severed locks and toss them into a bucket to be discarded, or used for mattress stuffing later. At that moment, Bethany entered the room, apparently concerned at her sister’s prolonged absence.

“Oh, Cait,” Bethany said unhappily as soon as she saw what her sister had done, “why did you do that? It’s _your_ hair. He doesn’t —”

She tossed the last lock into the bucket. “I know. I wouldn’t cut it to spite him. I’m not even angry at him... mostly,” she said sheepishly as Bethany gave her a deeply skeptical and disbelieving look. “But every time I look at my reflection, or see it, or a breeze makes it flutter... it brings those times to mind.”

“And you want to forget?” Her voice was quiet and soft.

“I... no, I don’t want to forget, but I don’t want to be reminded all the time either. I just... want something different. Something new, something not associated with memories like that.”

Bethany sighed. “Well, it’s done—and you did a neat job.” She offered her sister a somewhat forced smile. “It’s a different look, certainly, but it suits you as well as the long hair did. Are you ready to return to the common room now?”

She nodded.

Carver raised his eyebrows in momentary surprise at his sister’s new look, but he said nothing. Leandra and Leliana were not so silent.

“Oh, darling,” exclaimed Leandra, her face falling.

Leliana was much more diplomatic and courteous. “It’s very cute and roguish!” she exclaimed, even though she thought that long hair had better suited her. “A new look is sometimes exactly what one needs, no?”

Caitlyn took her seat on the divan and pulled Mal into her lap. He gazed in interest at his mother’s new haircut, obviously aware that this _was_ Mamma, but that she looked different now.

For her part, Caitlyn felt slightly more lighthearted than before. Truth be told, she did not love the haircut she had given herself, and it felt strange for her neck to be bare. But she would get used to it, and anyway, Leliana was right. As the former bard began a song, she found herself feeling strangely warm and close to her. Leliana had been a great friend to her, after all.

* * *

She was not sure what drove her to do it, but the next day, she left Mal in the care of her family and went into town to go to the Chantry. It was not to pray or otherwise express religious devotion, but to see Leliana—and after a brief audience with a priest, she was directed to Leliana’s room in the back.

A smile formed on her face as she began to hear the sounds of music. _I could have found her by myself,_ she thought, _except I still would have needed permission to come back here._ She almost hated interrupting Leliana, but... surely she would be happy to see her friend. Caitlyn waited outside Leliana’s door until the music ceased and then knocked gently.

“Oh!” Leliana exclaimed when she opened the door. “I am surprised to see you here!”

“I hope my visit is not unwelcome, though.”

“Of course not! Please come in.” Leliana pulled Caitlyn into the room and closed the door.

Caitlyn glanced around the room. Musical instruments rested on the simple furniture, and although Leliana wore Chantry robes, Caitlyn felt a smile come to her face as she noticed some fine jewelry that an initiate who had taken vows of chastity and poverty certainly would not be permitted to wear.

“So,” Leliana said, a smile forming on her face as though she already had a guess, “what has brought you here today?”

“You don’t know? After a year, you don’t know?” She smirked. “How were you ever a bard?”

“I do not want to be presumptuous.” Her face suddenly became very serious. “And I do not want _you_ to do anything that you will regret.”

Caitlyn glowered. She held out her left hand. “Notice anything different? I’m not going to live in the past any longer.”

Leliana had noticed the absence of the sapphire ring almost as soon as Caitlyn had emerged from her bedroom at the Hawke house the night before, only just after she had noticed the short haircut, but she was still unsure if Caitlyn had merely acted out of anger and spite. She did not want their friendship to be spoiled—and there was something else, too. Although she had not taken a vow of chastity, Leliana was still no longer interested in anything like the casual sexual behavior that she had engaged in as a bard. She did not think Caitlyn intended that, exactly, but neither did she want to be used to slake someone’s anger at another person.

Leliana took Caitlyn’s hand compassionately. “I care for you,” she said, her tone sincere. “I don’t want you to suffer additional pain. Please, think about this before you take it any farther. Be _sure_ that it is what you want, and that you want it for the right reasons.”

Caitlyn swallowed. Leliana meant what she was saying. She really was concerned about the repercussions of a mistake hurting her, and that actually warmed her heart and furthered her resolve. “I won’t rush,” she said softly. “I rushed with _him,_ and look where that got me.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “You regret it?”

“I... don’t know,” Caitlyn said. “I am glad that Mal was born. If Anders returned....” She swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. He won’t.” She leaned in. “I just... care about you. I never thought, after everything that happened, that I could care about someone in the Chantry.” She reached boldly for Leliana’s face, caressing her cheek with a sad smile on her face. “I will never have the natural faith that you do, probably. I’m just... more instinctively negative and pessimistic. I definitely don’t have faith in most _people,_ and I don’t understand why, if the Maker really cares about us, He would allow us to hurt each other the way we do, especially in His name, without any justice for it.”

“I don’t have the answer to that,” Leliana admitted. “Perhaps it just has not happened _yet._ If the Maker lets some people use their choices for ill, he must intend others to do good to counter it.”

“Perhaps,” Caitlyn conceded. “In which case, that is the duty of people like us. But you have shown me a different side of faith than the side that most priests and Templars exhibit.”

“I know how most of them are,” Leliana said quietly, “and it grieves me.”

“The faith _they_ have is like the faith of the Old Gods of Tevinter, I think! Sacrifices that _they_ choose, and obsession with political power.”

Leliana chuckled along with Caitlyn. “That is an interesting but accurate way to put it.”

“You are different from them.”

They regarded each other, inches away from each other’s face, for a moment before Caitlyn drew in to kiss her. The scent of Andraste’s Grace filled her nostrils. _Leliana must like those flowers,_ Caitlyn thought.

She had only kissed one other woman—or girl—and just as Anders had been much more confident and assertive than the Lothering boys she had kissed before, so was Leliana more confident than that village girl. Caitlyn brushed the thought out of her head that it was because of her years as a bard. That didn’t matter; it was in the past, and Leliana had said herself that she had not wanted to rush anything between them. Besides, Caitlyn thought, it did not intimidate her. She _would_ have been nervous and insecure before her relationship with Anders, but not now. She might not have anything close to the experience of a former bard, but her one previous partner had still shown her very effectively how to express affection and love. She deepened the kiss—and then thought of something else she could do, something else that her other relationship had given her the courage to do.

Summoning just enough heat to her fingertips to startle Leliana, Caitlyn brought her right hand gently to the back of the other woman’s neck. Leliana exclaimed in surprise, drawing away, her blue eyes wide and gleaming.

“Has a mage ever done anything like that to you before?” she said, a smirk on her face.

Leliana raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Would you not love to know?”

“I would, actually. I’ve heard—my father told me—that Orlesian nobles often had mages in their households.”

“It is true,” Leliana said, “and—if you must know—I have experienced, not heat, but... frost.”

“And which do you prefer?”

“Hmm.” She pretended to consider the question at length before finally giving Caitlyn a grin. “It is a tough choice, but—the warmth of sincerity is better than coldness of the Game, no?”

“Good.” She raised her open palm almost threateningly, summoning actual tiny flames that quickly flickered out, leaving warmth emanating from each of her finger pads. The other woman closed her eyes and smiled in anticipation.

* * *

_A month later._

There was something very tawdry about tumbling into Leliana’s bed in her quarters at the Chantry—and yet, simultaneously, it was almost an act of sanctification. When Caitlyn remarked on that to Leliana, it provoked a laugh.

“I have broken no vows,” Leliana said, smiling, her cheeks pink. “The Maker smiles upon love that is pure and innocent.”

Caitlyn laughed and draped herself over the other woman’s nude body, enjoying the easy, relaxing comfort of the familiar shape, even down to a similarity in hair color—though Caitlyn’s was a darker orange. “You call _this_ innocent?” She teased Leliana with a magically heated hand, tracing a path on the sensitive spot where her left thigh joined her hip.

The former bard shuddered at the touch. “Yes,” she managed to say. “I do. What is more innocent than the touch of a lover? There are many ways to pervert the gifts of the Maker, but this is not one of them.”

_I suppose a former bard would see it this way,_ Caitlyn realized as she pressed a kiss against Leliana’s neck.  _And... maybe she has the right of it._ All she knew for now was that it was lovely to feel needed and loved once again. Perhaps it would be safer, less risky, less likely to result in heartbreak and loss, to love another woman—and a woman who was not a mage.

* * *

_Satinalia 9:29._

Leliana smiled at the gift of satin slippers that Caitlyn had given to her. “Thank you,” she said softly, setting them aside.

Caitlyn sensed something amiss. “What’s the matter?” she said. She reached across the bed. “Is everything all right? I thought... they’re Orlesian shoes....”

“The gift was lovely,” Leliana reassured her. She caressed her cheek. “You should go home, though. Mal needs you, and your family must be missing you.”

“Leliana,” Caitlyn protested, “what’s wrong? If you don’t want to share my bed at home, you don’t have to. I understand if you’re uncomfortable, since I share a room with Bethany and Mal. But you don’t even visit as much anymore. Is everything all right? Are you having doubts about—this?” Something occurred to her. “Do you mean to become affirmed?”

Leliana shook her head immediately. “Oh, no—it is not that.” She smiled gently. “It is nothing for you to worry about.”

“I don’t think that’s quite true, though.”

Leliana did not want to spoil the holiday with what she knew would be an unpleasant discussion. She turned to her with another smile and said, reassuringly, “This holiday is sometimes a challenge for me. It is meant to be a day of happiness and lightheartedness, but for me... well, you must have guessed that I have some pain in my past, no? The bard under whom I trained....”

“Was she special to you?” Caitlyn guessed.

“She was, and we shared several Feastdays together... but she was false.” Leliana sighed. “Her treachery is what brought me to Ferelden.”

Caitlyn took her hand. “I’m sorry. I understand about people who are false, who lie and say things they don’t mean.”

Leliana knew instantly of whom she was speaking. Her inner sense of justice objected to Caitlyn’s characterization of her previous lover, but she also understood that she was speaking in anger again. But the fact that Caitlyn felt the need to say this at all, to have such an outburst, rather than simply expressing sympathy for Leliana’s own betrayal, confirmed to her what she had suspected.

_If she truly believes that now, then it is a defense for her own heart,_ Leliana thought as Caitlyn rose from the bed to gather up her clothes.  _It is still easier for her to foment an unjust grudge than to accept that she misses him. I can never be more to her unless she can let him go._

Leliana was not sure she even wanted that to happen. She hated the thought of losing the one lover she’d had who had been sincere, but she also could not wait forever for something that might not happen—something that, it seemed, could only happen if the mage Anders died, or if he finally met Caitlyn again and she could look him in the eye and tell him to leave. Leliana doubted the latter would happen, and she would not ever wish for the death of an innocent for the sake of her own happiness.

* * *

_Dragon 9:30._

“Who?” Mal asked, pointing at the confident, roguish, rather appealing brunette woman and her two companions as they gathered supplies and attempted to assist some of the Blight refugees in Lothering.

“They are the Grey Wardens, Mal,” Caitlyn said. “The woman with the two blades on her back must be Lady Elissa Cousland. The man is apparently called Alistair. I don’t know who the Chasind mage is.” Mal had not yet figured out exactly how to form grammatical sentences, and he was smart enough to know it, so he simply truncated them rather than saying something that he knew was not right. Caitlyn found it endearing, because she knew that when he did start asking full questions, they would be perfectly structured and enunciated, adult speech, more or less—and another bit of his early childhood gone. She knew that it was inevitable—she _wanted_ him to grow up, of course—but at the same time, there was a part of her that grew sad at the realization that it was happening.

“What is a Grey Warden?”

_There_ was a perfect sentence, she thought with a pang. Mal could ask questions that required singular forms; he just had not yet figured out plurals. “They fight the Blight,” she explained. “They’re going to kill the creatures that are threatening Lothering.” She sighed. “But we still cannot stay here.”  _The Blight, that Father heard the Wardens predicting three years ago. How different it might have been if he had survived. I guess Warden-Commander Duncan is dead now. That’s the rumor around town, that all of the Wardens in Ferelden were slain except these. Which of them is in charge? Warden Cousland acts like she is...._

She glanced in the direction of the Chantry, frowning. Leliana had been spending a lot of time in there lately. She had claimed to have a “vision from the Maker,” of which Caitlyn did not know what to think. She had not wanted to believe that Leliana would fabricate a lie in order to avoid her, especially a lie about her faith, but Leliana _had_ been increasingly distant with her even before this “vision” happened. And whatever the vision had consisted of—other than the little bit Leliana had told her, that it was a dream of the Blight—Leliana did _not_ want to talk about it with Caitlyn. It worried her. _Mother is determined that we will go to Kirkwall,_ she thought, _and... I guess we should, if our uncle really will take us in to the Amell manor. I am not entirely convinced that Leliana wants to go, though, and if this vision is real—or she thinks it is real—I think that is part of the reason._ It frightened her, though she could not say why. And there was something else, a reason that Caitlyn refused to articulate to herself, about why she was reluctant to leave Ferelden for Kirkwall.

_He won’t be in Kirkwall,_ her mind whispered despite her resolve.  _Leaving Ferelden means leaving him permanently._

“Mal,” she said, banishing _that,_ “would you stay with Aunt Bethany for now? I need to see Leliana.”

Mal nodded and instantly attached himself to Bethany as she gathered a small stock of elfroot. Steeling herself for what she feared was to come, Caitlyn headed into the Chantry.

* * *

Her fears were fully realized when she saw that Leliana had packed up all the personal belongings in her quarters. “You’re leaving,” she said.

“We must all leave,” Leliana replied, not looking at Caitlyn. “You should go with your family—your mother is taking you to Kirkwall, yes? To be with your uncle?”

“That’s what she hopes. Leliana, is the Chantry sending you somewhere?”

“I am not sworn to the Chantry,” she said. “I can go where I wish.”

“Then....”

“Caitlyn.” Her words were tired and sad.

Caitlyn’s heart thumped. “Leliana, please, you’re scaring me. What is going on? Aren’t you coming with us?”

“No,” Leliana admitted. “I am not.”

“But... you would be welcome,” she said, her words suddenly feeble. “Does this have something to do with your vision?”

Leliana remained turned aside. “It does, but there is more.”

“Are you... breaking up with me?”

“I... do not regret what we have had,” Leliana said, her words clearly extremely pained, “and I will always value you as a friend. But it is clear to me that I have never had your heart.” She finally met Caitlyn’s eyes. “You still love him.”

Caitlyn tensed, feeling sudden anger surge inside her. “Don’t accuse me of that.”

“Saying you love someone is hardly an _accusation,”_ she chastised gently.

“It was a _mistake,”_ Caitlyn replied, angry, venomous words tripping off her tongue before she could stop them, a pyroclastic flow of rage suddenly erupting from a long-simmering volcano. “We’d have been better off if I’d never met him. Actually, Father and I should have let the Blight wolves take him the very first night—or the blizzard.” A sharp pang of guilt hit her as soon as she said it, but this was quickly overcome by angry pride and a determination to show Leliana that he had no hold over her. He wasn’t here to hear her words, anyway, so what did it matter what nasty thing she said?

Leliana scowled with an expression on her face that Caitlyn had never before seen: an expression of contempt. “You are better than this, Caitlyn. I do understand how you feel, I think—”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes,” she said coolly, “I do. I actually _was_ betrayed by a person I loved, so I understand heartbreak quite well. And I also believe that you said that vicious thing about him to try to convince me that you do not care about him, that your heart belongs to me, so that I will go to Kirkwall with your family—but Caitlyn, it was not meant to be. I realize that now. I am glad that I could be there for you, and I will always consider you a friend, but....”

The heated rage suddenly vanished, leaving Caitlyn feeling small and vulnerable. “But it’s over?” she whispered. “Because you think I never stopped loving someone else?”

“I know you did not stop, and you never had a reason to. He gave you his mother’s ring and left you with a promise. He didn’t leave you; he was taken from you. I understand why you cannot let go of him. But it is unfair to _me.”_

Caitlyn reached for Leliana desperately, suddenly aware of what was happening. “Leliana, no! It’s not true! It’s been three years. He’s never coming back.”

“To Lothering? Probably not,” she agreed. “I hope not—because you and your family must leave as soon as you can. But that does not mean you will not see him again. I know you want to. And I also know that, although you tell yourself that he would have returned if he wanted, you do not entirely believe that, do you?”

She shook her head silently in denial of the entire line of questioning. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “Don’t... make me hurt again.”

“I do not want to hurt you,” Leliana said gently. “I am sorry that this causes you pain—but the wound never healed. You have simply bandaged it with this belief of which you have tried to convince yourself, this idea that he has stayed because he wanted to.” She sighed deeply and tilted Caitlyn’s head up, gazing into her wounded green eyes that were brimming with tears despite Caitlyn’s previous assertions—obviously false—that she wished Anders dead. “You know as well as I that he might be locked in that tower, watched far too closely for him to stand a chance of escape, due to his... record.”

She continued to shake her head. “Don’t,” she pleaded feebly. Why was Leliana doing this? Their relationship had been a soothing balm for so long; if it had to end because of the Hawkes’ planned departure for Kirkwall or the “vision” Leliana believed she had, that was bad enough. Why was Leliana ripping the wound open again, as she put it?

“It has to be said,” Leliana said. “Perhaps you are right, but you do not know that you are. You have avoided this possibility for a long time.”

“Why do you want me to think that?” she exclaimed. “If you’re right, he’s suffered far more than I have. Why do I need to think of that? It doesn’t help _anything._ If he is locked up, there’s nothing we can do about it.” She tried to calm herself before addressing Leliana again. “You know—you are right. I obviously never stopped loving him, and it _is_ because he never gave me a reason to.” The tears came to her eyes again despite herself. “He was sweet, and considerate, and I could tell that he meant to come back. He wanted to be part of my family, truly.” She suppressed a sob at the flood of memories that she had buried for so long. “I don’t want to think of him suffering, locked up somewhere in that tower. I’d _rather_ think he changed his mind and is staying by choice. A lot can happen in three years.”

“I understand that,” Leliana said again, “but you don’t believe it, do you? Do you _truly_ think he would knowingly abandon his child after making promises and being sweet and tender to you?”

Caitlyn gazed miserably at her. “Why are you doing this to me?” she said defeatedly. “If you want to end it between us, then just do that. Is this revenge for having to ‘share’ my heart for so long? I didn’t mean to do that to you. I tried to move on—I really did. That was the point of trying to believe—as you said. Whatever else you may think of me, please don’t think that I was just using you.”

Leliana gave her a sweet but entirely chaste hug. “I know. I’m sorry for hurting you, and it certainly is not ‘revenge.’ I do have a reason for saying this.” She steeled herself for what was to come. “I have made a decision. I am going to leave with the Grey Wardens to fight the Blight.”

Whatever Caitlyn had expected, it was not that. “What?” she exclaimed. “But you could die!”

Leliana took a deep breath, steadying herself, her resolution on this path hardening. “My vision already told me that I should go with them, but I was unsure; I questioned what I believed the Maker showed me, because I did not know what was the right thing to do by you. This talk has made it clear to me that it is the correct path.”

_“Leliana!”_

Leliana turned back to Caitlyn. “I’m sorry. This path has been laid out before me, and I must take it. But there is one thing I can do for you, I think. The Wardens are going to the Circle. I have spoken with Warden Cousland in Dane’s Refuge, and she tells me that the mages are traditional allies of the Wardens in Blights. You must not tarry in Lothering too long, but I will urge them to visit the Circle before trying to recruit other allies, so you should have enough time for me to send word. I will tell them that they should release Anders to you if he is there. I promise you this. If he is there and still loves you, I _will_ get him out.” She hesitated. She was not sure _how_ she would do that, but she did have bardic training, and if necessary, she could urge the Wardens to conscript him. “And if he has... gone to the Maker since Sketch last sent me information about him... or does not wish to be reunited with you… I will send word of that to you too.”

Caitlyn wiped her eyes and scowled. “If it’s the latter, make him fight the darkspawn.”

Leliana managed a sad laugh. “I certainly will.”

* * *

“We should leave,” Carver urged.

Caitlyn held Mal and stared out resolutely. “I haven’t heard from Leliana yet. She _promised_ me she would send a message about what she discovered at the Circle.”

“We are _running out of time,”_ he insisted. “The darkspawn are moving. You weren’t at Ostagar. It’s _bad._ We have to get out. The Vallens are practically the only other family left.”

“Leliana’s messenger won’t come to Lothering if it is considered abandoned or overrun,” Bethany pointed out, “and once we get to Kirkwall, you can surely contact her again. She’ll be with the Wardens’ party. They have a compound in Denerim, after all; Father went there. It would be no trouble. I wouldn’t worry about Teyrn... _Regent_ Loghain. I’m sure that will all get sorted out and they can set up in Denerim again.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes. She had a horrible feeling that it would not be quite that simple. She could not explain why she felt that way; perhaps it was just her own pessimism that had been nourished over the past three and a half years, but she strongly felt that she should wait to hear from Leliana before leaving. However... they had a point in that the darkspawn were quickly approaching. “I  _know._ Just... one more day.”

* * *

There was no message. The Hawkes had to leave, and they had to leave _today._ Aveline Vallen, her mother’s friend, had served at Ostagar with Carver, and her reports were just as dire.

Caitlyn slumped over her vanity. _I guess there will be a better one in the Amell manor in Kirkwall,_ she thought with a strangely painful lump in her throat. The furniture in this room had been hers for years. It was sad to leave it behind for the darkspawn.

_Maybe it will be all right,_ she thought.  _Maybe after the Blight, the town will be resettled, and some other young woman will have this room._

She realized that she didn’t believe that.

Mal tugged at her sleeve. “Mamma? Are we going?”

She glanced down at him. “Yes, sweetheart, of course. I’m just... saying goodbye to our room.” She glanced at the small bed that Carver had built for Mal, which slid so readily under the lower bunk—Caitlyn’s bunk after his birth, as she had switched with Bethany for the sake of convenience.

The items that she could take were packed up, but there was one last matter. She returned to the vanity and gazed upon the two items Anders had given her: his mother’s ring and the hairpin.

_Won’t I regret it if I leave them behind? Leliana said that I was acting on anger and spite. Isn’t this also angry and spiteful?_

_But if I don’t, I will brood over them in Kirkwall for the rest of my life,_ she thought.  _I am leaving Ferelden, starting a new life. How strange that my childhood dream of living in the Amell mansion will come true and my idea of having a happy, peaceful family with—him—won’t. This is going to be my life now, so I shouldn’t take them. Let the Blight take them._

She turned away from the vanity and left her room for the last time, holding her son’s hand.

* * *

“You’re apostates!” exclaimed Ser Wesley.

Caitlyn and Bethany tensed, and Mal cowered in utter terror behind his mother. _If you dare try to use Templar skills against us while we are all fighting darkspawn, I swear before the Maker I will cut you down where you stand,_ she swore silently to herself, clutching her staff—but fortunately, she talked him down—somehow. After the encounter, even she could not quite believe she had managed it.

They had waited too late, she realized with dismay as they fought through what seemed to be an unending stream of darkspawn. It was made even more difficult by Mal’s presence. He had to be protected, and at last Caitlyn simply cast a protective arcane shield around herself and him and forbade him to leave it. He was too terrified of the slavering monsters to dream of disobeying.

_It’s not my fault,_ she told herself repeatedly.  _It’s not. Leliana promised me she would write back with whatever she found at the Circle. I suppose I should have known better. She was a bard, after all. It was probably just a bard’s lie to get me to leave and stop begging her to stay with me. This is not my fault. I expected a message from her, and she never sent one. I should have known, I should have seen it coming, after Anders’ broken promise. People lie. They lie and make false promises—and then others suffer for it._

A new group of darkspawn jumped into the path.

_This wouldn’t be so difficult anyway if Father and Anders were here,_ she thought angrily as she sent a fireball into the maw of a gibbering hurlock.  _Two more mages would be very helpful, and it’s his fault that we don’t have either of them. Damn him. Curse him to the Void, and curse Leliana too. Why couldn’t she have come with us? She could wield a bow and blades. Damn her “vision.” She just wanted to get away from me and probably chase after Elissa Cousland._

Caitlyn was gnawing on this trail of wretched thought when the ogre struck.

They attacked as a group, but the creature was too fierce and too big. Mal screamed in terror, cowering behind his mother, trembling on the ground—but unfortunately that only captured the monster’s attention. The ogre hefted its weapon, grinning in evil triumph, and Caitlyn braced herself, raising her staff, grimacing and suddenly trying not to cry.

_This is it, then! My final act will be to fail as a mother,_ she thought bleakly.  _I’m so sorry, Mal. I love you. You deserved better. You deserved better parents—both of them—especially me. Maker, you’d be better off with your father now._ This thought, horrible and yet bizarrely amusing in a dark way, crossed through her mind in a flash—but it didn’t matter. They were here. She readied a spell to attempt to defend her son.

A screaming feminine war cry tore through the air as Bethany charged the ogre, spells bursting from her staff and her free hand. The sudden appearance of a new target distracted the ogre from its attack on Caitlyn and Mal.

It happened very quickly. The ogre grabbed Bethany, throttled her, and slammed her into the ground repeatedly, cracking her skull and leaving her for dead.

_“No!”_ Leandra screamed in anguish. “Not my baby girl!”

Every one of them, except the little boy, charged the ogre in grief and fury. Caitlyn could not look at her sister’s broken body. All she could think of was rage—finally, at last, her rage was useful, but at a terrible, terrible price.

When the ogre finally lay dead from the onslaught of their furious attacks, they turned back to Bethany. Miraculously, she was still breathing—but it was all too clear that she would not last much longer.

_And we don’t have a Healer,_ Caitlyn thought, feeling a spark of fury yet again, though she hated herself for it. Couldn’t the anger stay away for a bloody  _second?_

She was silent as the Templar, Ser Wesley, gave her little sister last rites. Tears formed in her eyes and instantly flooded her cheeks. This was so wrong, so unfair—why her? Bethany was so talented, so creative, so sparkling— _why?_

_What am I going to do without you?_ she thought, feeling a surge of misery as her sister breathed out for the last time.

Her mother’s grief-stricken words of blame hurt, all the more so because she could not even dispute them anymore. If they had left earlier, perhaps this  _wouldn’t_ have happened, and it was her fault that they had not. If she had not trusted the promises of a bard, or had not let her father take the self-inflicted problems of a runaway onto himself, none of this might have happened. They might have been safe and together as a family.

Carver tapped her shoulder. “There are more of them.”

Caitlyn rose to her feet unsteadily. “Of bloody  _course_ there are. Curse the Archdemon to the ends of the Void. Curse it to the end of time.” She pulled Mal close, cast her arcane shield again, and looked back miserably at her sister’s body. They would at least have the ashes of her father with them in Kirkwall. Of Bethany, her poor brave little sister, they would have nothing now except the belongings she had stowed in the common pack.

_I’m so sorry,_ Caitlyn told her sister, hoping that somehow she could hear her beyond the Fade.  _I won’t let your sacrifice be in vain._

* * *

Ser Wesley had not long outlived his own benediction for the fallen mage. Aveline, to the Hawkes’ awe, deep respect, and great sadness, had ended his suffering from the Blight sickness.

The form of Flemeth—supposedly, though Caitlyn hardly cared at this point whether the thing was telling the truth or not—stood before them, having extorted a promise from Caitlyn and Carver to do a favor for her once they arrived safely in the Free Marches. Caitlyn found it despicable—if Flemeth, or whoever the witch was, really thought they were worth saving, why attach strings?  _And why didn’t she save Bethany and Ser Wesley?_ her thoughts screamed.  _Obviously she was here all along._ That fact alone made her almost not want to agree, to simply defy Flemeth and take the consequences—but she knew she didn’t have the right to choose death for everyone else.

Mal was utterly traumatized by the darkspawn, his poor aunt’s violent end, and the dragon form of Flemeth. He was cowering behind Caitlyn, burying his face in her robes. Hearing her little child cry and sob, feeling him shake and tremble, only reinforced to her grief-stunned mind her own failure at the one thing she should not fail at, being a mother.  _What right do I even have to survive?_ she thought—but even if she didn’t, everyone else in the party did. If Flemeth was to be the source of their salvation, so be it.

* * *

They mostly avoided her on the ship. Leandra and Carver had always been close, and Caitlyn knew what they were not saying:  _This is your fault. And they’re right,_ she thought again.  _It is my fault._

_And theirs. Anders could have healed Bethany, surely. Father might even have been able to defend us all against those things. And if Leliana had come along, perhaps she could have helped too—but at a minimum, I shouldn’t have believed her. The Wardens probably aren’t going to the Circle at all. It was probably all a lie._

Mal whimpered. “Are the darkspawn coming back?”

“No,” she whispered. “They’re not.” She clutched her shocked, traumatized child close, attempting to soothe his anguish.

He curled against her. “I miss Aunt Bethany.”

She burst out a sob that quickly turned into a flood. “We all do,” she managed to choke out as she held him close. At the sight of his mother’s tears, Mal began to cry too.

_Never again,_ she vowed as the ship entered the open sea and turned north.  _My family members die when I love and trust people. Never, ever again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware that Hawke's angry, hostile behavior and thoughts are extremely unsympathetic. This is how she copes with loss, and it’s not a great way. She will eventually get better and stop harboring so much anger, but it may take a while.
> 
> I think Anders’ Grey Warden days will take two chapters, but it’s possible I can do it in one if it's a long one like this chapter. Honestly, I hope I can, because this misery is getting tough to write.


	9. Shadows Searching in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much once again!
> 
> Well… I _will_ require one more chapter before they’re both in Kirkwall. I seem to be fundamentally incapable of keeping things brief.
> 
> On the upside, I ended up writing out Anders’ final escape. I hadn’t intended to do that, and the way it happens is off-canon, but as soon as the idea occurred to me, I found it far too amusing not to write out.
> 
> I’m not diverging from canon very much with regard to Anders’ Grey Warden experiences, so I’m not going to go into too much detail about the events of _Awakening_. You know what happens.

_Dragon 9:30._

Anders almost did not recognize himself in the vanity mirror anymore. Gone was the trim, fit mage with sun-kissed skin and a cocky smirk on his face. After a year of solitary confinement, a  _ year  _ of seeing literally nothing except the walls of this small room and the horrifying flat faces of the Tranquil who brought him books and meals, he was pale and thin, his eyes haunted. There was little doubt in his mind that he would be dead now if not for Justice—that a demon would have at last had a convincing argument for him, and in his desperation about Caitlyn and Karl, he would have taken the demon’s offer despite his better judgment. But instead, Justice had been his protector, had kept him grounded and focused.

He wasn’t sure how he could ever repay the immense debt he owed to the spirit. He owed Justice his life more than once now, and compounding the debt, he had done the impossible and become a Spirit Healer without the knowledge of anyone in the Circle. More than a Spirit  _ Healer, _ actually: The benevolent spirit would provide a boost to Anders’ magic in general, as long as it approved of what Anders was doing. It was something he and Justice had worked out in the Fade over the course of the year. The practice of Spirit Healing was not prohibited, but Templars watched mages who did it extremely closely. The last one he knew of who did it was an elderly woman, Wynne, and even though she was on good terms with most of the Templars and believed she worked with a Spirit of Faith rather than the more martial (and potentially menacing to the Circle authorities) Spirit of Justice, they even watched  _ her.  _ They probably would have made  _ him  _ Tranquil immediately if they’d known what he was up to, Enchanter or not, but instead it was his and Justice’s little secret. He found it very satisfying that the Knight-Commander’s determination to inflict cruel and unusual punishment on him had actually enabled him to break a truly major rule right under the old man’s nose—and made it easier to effect a final, permanent escape.

_ This is it, _ he had thought a week ago, when the Templar guard let him out of his room at last.  _ I won’t leave immediately, because they’ll probably expect me to try to bolt, but I’m leaving as soon as I can, and I will never return. If they try to capture me again, Justice and I will make sure it does not happen—at all costs. _ The dark promise he made to himself thrilled him, even though he hoped it would not come to that.

The main part of his plan was his own idea. A major flaw in his previous escapes had been a fixation on the idea of running rather than covering his tracks. He had sneaked past Carroll or knocked him out, and as soon as the Templar had come to, he had instantly guessed who had done it yet again. It had not given Anders enough time to put distance between himself and the tower. Even when he had made it to the Bannorn, he had been caught because he had vacillated and wasted time deciding where to go, assuming that he had more time than he really did due to the fact that his phylactery was in Denerim.

He was still going to sneak out, but it would be  _ much  _ more cunning. His most successful escape, the one in which he had met Hawke, had been heavy on cunning. He had dived into a frigid lake and run south at the onset of a snowstorm, trying to convince the Templars that he would die. Now, he was going to outright fake his own death—in a manner of speaking. He hoped that he could arrange an... event... that convinced the Templars he had become a rage abomination. Notes left by chance in books, which he had destroyed once he had them memorized, had led him to a surprising conclusion: A powerful demon could be summoned by merely touching statues in a certain order.

Justice had not wanted any part of stealing a Templar’s armor to prevent any witnesses from identifying him or, especially, setting the demon Shah Wyrd loose in the tower. The spirit had vocally objected to deceit, theft, and, in particular, risking innocent lives—but Anders was determined on it, and Justice simply would not participate in that part of the escape. Anders also hoped that the demon did not kill any mages, but if it did, he vowed he would make their sacrifices mean something.

_ That is not your choice to make for others, _ Justice still whispered in his thoughts. He dismissed the voice. Justice meant well, but he—Anders had come to think of the spirit as male, perhaps due to its increasing connection with himself—represented only one idea, and the mortal world was more complicated than that. Anders would do his best to keep the other mages away from the area.

Anders had already procured a spare set of Templar armor from a storage closet that he had managed to break into with the help of his spirit-enhanced magic. He had stashed it away near the basement entrance, where the demon was supposed to be. He hated the idea of putting the stuff on, but it had to be done so that nobody, absolutely nobody, would be able to identify him after he was seen going into the basement. He would leave it behind as soon as he could.

The enchanted statues were on the third floor. Trying to keep a smirk off his face, Anders sauntered up the stairs.

_ Four statues. _ Making sure that nobody was watching what he was doing, he tapped them in order, returned to the first floor, and entered the library.

“I’m going into the basement to get something,” he announced to the nearest group of mages, who nodded and barely looked up from their books. _There are my witnesses, then,_ he thought. _Now to summon it._

Anders first checked the crawl space for the Templar armor. Finding it still there, he painstakingly put on each piece, glowering as he did—but as soon as he put the helmet on, it hardly mattered, as no one would be able to see the look of loathing on his face now anyway.

He walked down the basement steps and touched the door. That was all that it took. Immediately, a fiery, growling rage demon appeared at the base of the stairs.

_ Nobody thinks twice about a Templar running from a demon, apparently,  _ Anders thought with cynical amusement as he took off down the hallway, disguising his voice as best he could to “warn” his “colleagues.”

* * *

The Templar armor was long gone, left behind in a grove of trees just inside the Bannorn. Anders was able to move at a comfortable pace now without the heavy gear, and he did so, even though he did not expect that anyone at the Circle would suspect he had escaped this time—and they would not have his phylactery readily available to check. Once the demon was put down, they would take an accounting of the mages and Templars, and then his absence would be noted—but the ones in the library could then say that he had said he was going to the basement, where the creature had come from. He really should be presumed dead this time.

_ And if any innocents died in this escape,  _ Justice lectured him in his dream when he bedded down in the woods for the night,  _ you must keep your promise and work for Circle reform, not just pursue your own desires. _

“Yes, yes,” Anders murmured in the Fade. He would do that someday. The injustices of the past three years had lit a fire inside him to get the situation changed for mages. But he was due to reach Lothering tomorrow, and that was going to be challenging enough emotionally.

_ Did Cait have the baby? _ he wondered, fully lucid in the Fade.  _ What is he like, I wonder? What is his name? Does he look more like her or like me—or neither of us? Perhaps he inherited the Amell features instead. Has she told him anything about me? _

He had no idea how any of this would go, and he was pointedly avoiding thinking of the possibility that she had found someone else over the course of three years, even though he knew it  _ was _ possible.  _ He  _ had, albeit briefly. What if she had too, and it had not been brief?

_ I still need to know, _ he thought.  _ I need to know, and I need to meet my son—if all went well. Maker, I hope it did. I hope I can knock on their door and she will open it and throw her arms around me, as our child peeks around the corner, instantly deducing who I am. That’s what I want to happen. I’ll apologize for what happened to her father and everything else. I’ll get on my knees and beg her if need be. I’m coming, love. I’m coming at last. _

* * *

Anders first heard word of the Blight in a tiny scrap of a village in the southern Bannorn the next day.

“You’d better turn around and head back,” warned a snaggle-toothed farmer headed in the opposite direction on the road. “Nothing to the south but darkspawn now.”

He stopped cold. “What do you mean?” A chill crawled up his back. There had been precursors of a Blight even three years ago, as he knew all too well.

“It’s a Blight and no mistake. The army was lost at Ostagar fortress,” the farmer said. “Most of it, anyway. Teyrn Loghain’s company made it. The King fell too, and all the Grey Wardens.”

_“What?”_

“You haven’t heard any of this? Where’ve you been?” The farmer examined him. “You look ill. Pale.”

“Yes,” Anders said at once, seizing upon that excuse. “I have been infirm for a year. I haven’t heard anything. King Cailan is dead? _And_ the Grey Wardens, all of them?”

“Well... two of them made it, so I heard. Maker preserve them.”

“What about... Lothering?” he croaked, terrified of what he might hear.

“That’s where you’re headed? Turn around and head back. The town’s gone.”

Anders felt faint. He scrambled for a post for support and clutched it, leaning forward slightly as he gaped at the man. “Gone?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Compassion filled the farmer’s face as something occurred to him. “You knew someone there, didn’t you? I expect they’re fine. The townsfolk evacuated, mostly.”

He steadied himself, feeling some blood return to his head. “I... did know someone there, yes. They lived on the outskirts. I have to at least see—maybe they left some clues behind about where they would have gone.”  _ Kirkwall? _ he wondered.  _ Mistress Hawke had family there, but it would’ve been easier for them to stay in Ferelden. Perhaps Denerim, then? I have to find what clues I can instead of chasing all over the countryside, hoping I’ll stumble on them randomly. _ “They wouldn’t sit and wait for the darkspawn to take them, I’m sure.”

“Then Maker watch over you,” the farmer said, shaking his head, clearly thinking it a very bad idea for him to continue, but not trying to stop him.

Feeling a drastically renewed anxiety to reach the Hawke cabin, Anders cast Haste on himself as soon as the farmer was well out of sight.

* * *

The situation at Lothering was worse than he could have imagined. He held a handkerchief over his face to avoid breathing in mold and dust that could easily be Tainted as he passed through what had once been the town. The sun had nearly set, which provided him some cover in case darkspawn were still lurking around, but oddly, he had not seen them. Of course, he supposed that he wouldn’t; they lived to destroy and ruin what the people of Thedas had built, not to take it over for occupation themselves. They had moved on somewhere else, or perhaps back underground. He shuddered at the thought that they could be below his feet this very moment.

Although they had not bothered to occupy Lothering, they had certainly destroyed it. Broken timbers and torn flaps of awning pierced the air; the Chantry windows were smashed out; the shop was a smoldering ruin. Sour, stale fumes filled the air, the scent of days-old smoke, mold, and probably Blight.

Anders gazed across the hillside at the forest. The Hawke cabin should be on the other side, but he found that he did not particularly want to enter that forest again. The last time he had done so, Tainted creatures had attacked him. It seemed like tempting fate to do it again, _knowing_ that a Blight was on, and also knowing that there would be no one to rescue him this time. There was a longer path that curved around south of town, a rocky, rather crude path that he could take instead. To get to the cabin, he would have to head east and then double back, making a wide loop, but it was doable.

He had resolved to do this when he first saw the silhouette of something dangling from a tree in the village square. Perhaps a hanging lantern left over from a Summerday festival? As he squinted in the fading light, he realized that there were several of them....

_Those aren’t lanterns._

Anders gaped in horror at the severed heads, mouths hanging open, tongues lolling out, eyes mostly rotted or picked out. Several of them were small. _Children,_ he thought, feeling a surge of outrage and sickening grief. _The darkspawn did that to children!_

He cast Haste again on his legs. As horrible as this was, there was absolutely nothing to be gained from staring at it. He could do nothing for those poor people. His heart pounded as he reached the rocky, tunnel-like trail that forked off the main road.

His boots pounded the primitive trail as the sky quickly grew dark. The path was sinister-looking in the twilight, a creepiness that was matched by the treacherous nature of its rock-strewn footpath. Anders stumbled on his feet a couple of times—and then he saw the first body that wasn’t a darkspawn corpse.

 _A Templar,_ he noted as he saw the man’s armor. From the look of it, the Templar had been killed only a few days ago. Anders was not sure how to feel about it. At least this one had, apparently, died fighting darkspawn instead of going after mages in the middle of a darkspawn attack... but the Holy Smite— _unholy Smite, rather,_ he thought—of the twisted bastard Ser Rolan, the mean-spirited act against him that had kept him from giving Malcolm Hawke a decent pyre, returned to his thoughts, preventing him from feeling too much grief about the death of a stranger.

The next body he saw was not that of a stranger.

“Oh, no,” Anders whispered, falling to his knees at the sight of the fallen body of Bethany Hawke. She was older, of course, and fully grown, but she was still starkly recognizable.

Her face was almost peaceful in death, he saw, feeling his chest hitch as he recalled her spirited, accepting nature, her encouragement of her sister and her amusing little schemes to give him private time with Caitlyn. Her eyes were closed and her facial expression was not one of frozen horror, but sleep. Her body, too, was only a few days old—and it was that realization that suddenly brought Anders to horrified, choking sobs.

_I’m too late,_ he thought.  _I should have left as soon as I got out of the room! I shouldn’t have waited a week; I should have done it at once! Just a few days would have made a difference._ He reached out with his magic to assess the condition of her body and the injuries that had killed her. Her skull had been cracked, and she had suffered a severe traumatic head injury. There had been blood on her brain, and that had been the cause of death. It would have been a challenge to heal, and he was not certain he could have done it, especially in a battle, but he thought he  _might_ have been able to do it if he had just been there.

He glanced around. There were no other bodies, either strangers to him or... not. Bethany did not have her staff with her anymore either, a detail that gave him a faint flicker of hope. Someone might have taken it away. Someone might have survived—and there was only one other person in the Hawke family who could use a staff. Even if their child turned out to be a mage— _if he made it,_ Anders thought miserably—they would not know that yet.

He remembered what had happened when he had tried to do right by Malcolm Hawke, but he dismissed that thought. Bethany was the aunt of his child. He could not just leave her body here for the Blighted scavenger animals. He scooped her body up, shuddering from its coldness and stiffness, as he backtracked along the rocky trail until he finally saw the Hawke cabin. At least it did not appear to have been sacked or burned by darkspawn.

* * *

_Oh, no._ Anders gazed at the items on Caitlyn’s vanity. He could not remember how much she had owned, but some things were definitely still here—and among them were his two gifts to her, the feathered hairpin and his mother’s sapphire ring. Its sparkling had caught his eye in the middle of all the dim, dusty gloom.

_Why would she leave them behind?_ he thought, staring in horror.  _Especially lying out like this? If she was angry at me, surely she wouldn’t even have kept them, especially the ring. It is valuable. And... a lot of their belongings are still here._

_Were they already all dead when Bethany went out on that rocky trail? Could Bethany have been the last Hawke to attempt to escape? Could she have been alone? But... what happened to the others?_

The grisly tree in the village square returned to his memories, but he would not face that possibility. He  _would not._ Putting the ring and the hair ornament into his belt pouch, he gazed around the little bedroom, so familiar to him. He moved forward—and almost tripped on something.

_There’s something new,_ he thought, looking down. A small bed was pushed halfway under the lower bunk bed. His heart leaped at the sight. A bed that size could be for only one person—and it appeared, too, that Caitlyn had  _not_ moved out of the house to take up with a new partner.

But what did it matter if they were all dead now?

Feeling partially outside of his own body, he moved through the rest of the cabin, looking for anything, any clues, any proof that the rest of the family either  _had_ made a run for it or... not. He also looked for any indication of where they might have gone, but there was nothing. He thought there were some items missing, but after three years, he honestly could not remember. If they had tried to escape on foot and the darkspawn had been literally at their heels, they wouldn’t have been able to bring much.

_If Carver became a soldier as he wanted to, he might have perished at Ostagar,_ Anders suddenly thought.  _I can’t believe that every single soldier except those with Teyrn Loghain died, but he easily could have been among them._ That thought made his heart ache even more. He had not gotten along with Carver, but he hated the thought of any...  _more..._ Hawkes being gone even if Caitlyn and their child had made it—of which he was horribly unsure now.

At last Anders gave up. The house held no answers. He stepped outside again, shaking and trembling, unsure of what was even keeping him on his own two feet anymore.

“I’ll do it this time,” he mumbled as he approached Bethany’s body. He did not have to have a staff, but it would produce hotter flames, and the quicker this was done, the better. It might be dangerous to light a fire. He had not seen any living darkspawn, but he did not want to bring them down upon him.

When the flames caught, he finally collapsed to his knees, sobbing and shaking as the fire consumed Bethany’s body. When at last it crumbled to ash, he gathered the ashes up in a leather pouch he had found inside the cabin. Why, he did not know, and he was aware that it was macabre. It was vaguely creepy to tote around the ashes of the  _sister_ of the woman he had loved. But he had no home anymore, so he had to keep everything on himself. If any Hawkes had survived, surely they had regretted leaving Bethany’s body behind and would be glad of this, if any gladness could be found anymore.

* * *

_Denerim._

“Those are all the passenger manifests I have for two months,” the harbormaster said, scowling at Anders. “If you haven’t found the people you’re looking for, I suggest you look at a different port.”

Anders nodded miserably. “And... what’s the word about the Grey Wardens?”

The man glowered. “The  _word_ is that they betrayed the king at Ostagar,” he snarled. “The Regent has sacked their compound in the Palace. You’d best not take too much open interest in the Grey Wardens, unless you mean to collect the bounty, of course.”

_What has happened to Ferelden?_ Anders thought in despair and anger as he headed away from the harbor.  _We are under assault by darkspawn, in the middle of a Blight, and the government has declared the Grey Wardens to be traitors? What in the Void is going on?_

* * *

Highever and Amaranthine were not admitting strangers. Apparently, Arl Howe had taken over Highever and was trying to put down constant revolts by Cousland loyalists, who were also—it seemed—loyal to the Grey Wardens due to the fact that the last surviving Cousland was now the leader-in-exile of that order, such as it was. Anders was not overly interested in noble politics, but this made it impossible to get complete information about the ports within the teyrnir and arling. Surely this state of affairs would not last too much longer, though. He hated being near the Circle, but he supposed he should check West Hill, which  _was_ open.

There were several Templars milling around at the harbor of West Hill. Anders ducked away. He did not recognize any of these, but it was best to wait until they had left before making inquiries.

To his despair, the ship manifests from the past few months were just as devoid of the names he was hoping to see as those from Denerim had been. Trying to swallow the panic and misery that welled up inside him, he asked the harbormaster, attempting to affect casualness, “What was the story behind all those Templars who were here earlier?”

“They wanted to go to Val Royeaux,” the man said gruffly and with more than a hint of contempt. “After all that happened at the Circle of Magi and all....”

A sick feeling formed in Anders’ gut.  _Surely not. I only loosed a single demon._ “What do you mean? What happened there?”

“A secret cabal of blood mages, led by some mage named Uldred, took it over and summoned demon after demon! Most of the mages and a lot of the Templars got killed outright or turned into abominations. Practically destroyed, it was.” He shook his head, fortunately not noticing the look of relief that washed over Anders’ face despite this horrible news. “Word has it that the _Warden_ and her companions took care of the problem. Of course, you didn’t hear that from me.”

_Well, that will certainly ensure that they won’t be interested in me anymore. A cabal of blood mages! I wonder who they were in addition to Uldred? It sounds like I got out at exactly the right time,_ Anders thought.  _And... I never believed I’d think this... but I am glad Karl was sent to Kirkwall, too! What an escape. And what a great way to disprove the idea that the Circle keeps mages from turning bad. Blood mages within the Circle itself, operating in secret, rather than apostates. I hate that so many innocent mages must have died. I’m just... glad that it had nothing to do with the rage demon I set loose._

He still was not wholly comfortable remaining here, this close to Kinloch Hold, but it seemed that the entire country was in too much chaos and confusion for any Templar to go to Denerim with the intent of getting hold of his phylactery. Indeed, he was surely presumed dead... along with so many others he had known over the years. He just hoped that the rest of the Hawkes were not.

He remained in West Hill, checking the passenger records for all the minor port towns, waiting hopefully for Highever and Amaranthine to open up again, and was still there when word reached the little inn at which he was staying. They had a new king, a previously unknown half-brother of King Cailan who had actually been a Grey Warden beside Warden Cousland, and he had been wed to Queen Anora. Some people had expected Warden Cousland to become Queen, but evidently, she preferred the company of women and another of her companions was her lady love. Even more curiously, Teyrn Loghain, the avowed enemy of the Wardens, had  _become_ one at the Landsmeet—apparently under orders from Warden Cousland—in exchange for his life. Finally, that very same Warden Elissa Cousland had slain the Archdemon atop Fort Drakon in Denerim, deftly leaping atop the thing and plunging her two sharp daggers into its head—or so the story went—and ending the Fifth Blight.

It was all very well, Anders thought when he heard the crier proclaiming all of this, but it would only affect him so far as it served to settle the country down, making it easier for him to continue his search for the Hawke family—if anything remained of it.

He hoped to the Maker that he wasn’t too late for all of them. But he had not seen any bodies but Bethany’s, and she had not had her magical staff with her. As bleak as the situation in the Hawke cabin had appeared, Anders was determined to hold onto that one fact. He chose not to think of the possibility that Bethany might have made a desperate run without it once the rest of her family was already gone. He kept the ring, hairpin, and pouch of ashes in his belt purse like talismans of hope that someday he would be able to return these items to the family.

* * *

_Dragon 9:31._

Highever’s passenger records had been just as devoid of Hawkes as those of West Hill and Denerim had been, and at last, still holding onto the last vestige of hope, Anders had traveled to Amaranthine.

_What am I going to do if they’re not listed here either?_ he thought miserably as he trekked to the harbormaster’s office in pouring rain.  _There are still ports between here and Denerim, and there are all the little towns between Highever and Amaranthine, I suppose. They might even have left from south of Denerim. But why would they have left for Kirkwall from a port south of Denerim? That makes no sense and would be very dangerous sailing. How do I even know that they went to Kirkwall at all, for that matter?_

_But if they didn’t, how in the Maker’s name can I possibly find out what happened to them in Ferelden? So many people have been displaced by the Blight, so many killed. A full accounting is just beginning, and I’m sure there will be some people who are never found at all._ He shuddered; while in Highever, he had heard a chilling rumor of darkspawn capturing people and taking them underground for some unknown, but terrible, purpose.  _Could all of this, all the waiting, the planning, Justice’s help, all of it—have been for nothing?_

_Surely not—surely not my girl and my son—_ but at once, his mind dismissed that.  _How many other people thought that? There were children slain by darkspawn,_ he thought, remembering the ghastly tree in Lothering.  _They weren’t protected by their ages. Some people_ did  _lose their daughters and sons, their wives and husbands, their lovers. There is absolutely nothing that would keep me from...._ He could not finish the thought.

He came away from the harbormaster’s office in Amaranthine practically sobbing. At least the rain disguised it—but he was too distracted to notice the sharp glower of Ser Rylock and her band of followers.

He did not realize he was being followed until he was almost on the grounds of the fortress of Vigil’s Keep.

* * *

“This mage has been an apostate for over _eight months!”_ shouted Ser Rylock, spittle practically frothing from her mouth. “He is suspected of setting a demon loose in the Circle Tower!”

The other woman—yes, it really must be the Hero of Ferelden herself; two lethally sharp silverite daggers gleamed on her back, and her chestpiece bore the emblems of the Cousland family and the Grey Wardens—stared back with cold contempt. “The Circle Tower?” she barked, her tones posh and aristocratic, but also filled with disdain. “That would be the same tower that was packed to bursting with abominations and demons that  _your_ precious order couldn’t stop? That my companions and I had to secure  _for you?”_ She sneered. “You have already accused this mage of murdering your Templars here in this fortress when I know for a  _fact_ that the darkspawn did it. Why should I believe a word you say against him?”

Ser Rylock glowered back. “I do not question your heroism, Warden-Commander, but you are a fool to take him into your company. He is dangerous! We did not suspect that he loosed a demon until the Templars went to Denerim to destroy the phylacteries of the mages who had perished in that disaster and discovered that his was still active. He did it on purpose to trick us into thinking  _he_ had become an abomination! I’m sure of it! Let us take care of him once and for all!”

Anders panicked for a moment and tensed, prepared at least to die fighting, but Warden-Commander Cousland noticed it. She placed a hand protectively on his shoulder and tapped the griffons on her armor.  _“No,”_ she said firmly. “As Warden-Commander of Ferelden, I invoke the Right of Conscription on this mage. That right is  _absolute,”_ she said harshly as the Templar opened her mouth to object again. “It is absolute and non-contestable. You have no further business with him. Now, since Vigil’s Keep belongs to the Grey Wardens, I rule this castle, and I order you and your company to take yourselves off.”

Ser Rylock gave Cousland a glare of loathing, but she did not dare disobey.

Anders breathed out once the troop of surviving Templars finally left. He turned to the Warden-Commander with gratitude in his face.

She was an attractive woman, he noted. Her hair was a fairly nondescript shade of brown, mouse-brown rather than rich mahogany or red-tinted, but she had it in a long braid that was both elegant and practical. Her grey-blue eyes were sharp and intelligent. However, if the rumors he’d heard in West Hill were correct, she was unattainable. In any case, she was to be his  _commander,_ and most importantly, his heart belonged to another woman.

“I was not going to let that Templar take you off to be put to death,” Cousland said at once, a wry smile on her face. “The Wardens need mages, quite frankly—and I had an additional reason for conscripting you once I learned your name.”

“My... name?” Anders repeated. “You had heard of me before, then? Commander?” he added.

“A... companion... of mine asked the First Enchanter about you by name when I recruited the Circle mages to fight the Blight,” she said. “But you were missing, ‘presumed dead.’”

“A companion?” he wondered. “How could any of your companions know of my existence?”

“She is a Chantry sister from Lothering,” Cousland explained, “and said that you had resided there for a while as an apostate.” Upon seeing the hostile glower that formed on Anders’ face at these words, she frowned and added, “She is sympathetic to mages and disagrees with what is done. She thought you would be a good Warden recruit _because_ you didn’t want to be in the Circle.”

“Oh,” he said, the anger melting from his face. A flicker of hope flared in his heart. “Did she say... anything else? Anyone in Lothering that she might have known?”

Cousland shook her head. “I’m afraid not, and you must realize, the town is gone. She left before the darkspawn sacked it, so she would not have information about what happened to anyone.”

“I do know,” he said, his voice low. “I just hoped....”

“Some escaped, but others were likely captured by the darkspawn, I’m afraid.”

“I heard that rumor in Highever,” Anders said. He decided to venture the question; surely the Hero of Ferelden, of all people, would be able to shed some light on it. “I didn’t know that happened. Why would the darkspawn capture anyone? What would they... do?”

Cousland turned away, grimacing.

“Warden-Commander?” he asked again, his voice suddenly shaky. Something was wrong.

“I... will take you and the other recruits on a mission later to show you about that, I expect,” she said. Her voice was uneven. “It’s... tough to explain.”

Something was very, very wrong—but Anders knew he was not going to get an answer just yet. His heart thudded at the sudden, dark uncertainty, the fear of a total unknown.

“There are many people who were displaced in the Blight who are just now being found,” Cousland continued. “My lord brother, the new Teyrn of Highever, was one of them.” She smiled darkly. “And a fellow recruit you’ll soon meet: Nathaniel Howe.”

“The son of the late Arl?”

She nodded tightly. “Yes. He will take the Joining with you and two others. The Wardens were decimated, and of course, one of us now sits on the throne. Warden Loghain will be joining our party in a few days; he is currently at the Grey Warden fortress of Soldier’s Peak, but we still need to rebuild, and we cannot afford to turn aside good recruits. Now let us proceed.” She began to walk briskly toward a different room in the fortress.

As Anders hurried to keep pace with her, he felt that he should get something cleared up. “Warden-Commander,” he began. “That Templar... the demon she was talking about....”

“The First Enchanter said you disappeared two days before the Circle went to the Void, and that he feared a demon they’d had to put down had either killed you or... well. Needless to say, I don’t believe what that Templar said about you. Obviously, the demon that got out was part of that plot. Of course you seized the opportunity that the chaos afforded, and given what happened to the Circle so soon after, I’m glad you did. Your escape may have saved your life.”

Anders had no intention of ever telling the Warden-Commander that Ser Rylock had been absolutely correct. It didn’t matter. His little stunt had not cost any lives, and he was finally— _finally!—_ free of the blasted, accursed Circle for the rest of his life.

* * *

_Infertile?_ Anders thought. He had awakened from the worst nightmare he’d ever had, to learn that one of the four Warden recruits had perished in the Joining ceremony—a macabre ritual in which they drank a potion containing darkspawn blood—and as soon as the other survivors, Nathaniel Howe and the dwarf Oghren Kondrat, woke up, Warden-Commander Cousland had told them the grim facts of Grey Warden life.

_I have had a child already,_ he thought, remembering that little bed in the Hawke cabin in Lothering,  _but I don’t know...._ He could not complete the thought. If his little son had not survived—if Caitlyn had not survived—he wasn’t sure he even  _wanted_ to try to have another child.

But if they had, he would have wanted the chance to have a larger family, and now that was taken away from him forever. Being a Warden was the one way a mage of the southern countries could live outside the Circle with the surety of being left alone, and  _this_ was the price he had to pay.

_The one child I’ll ever have,_ he thought unhappily,  _and I missed his infancy and early childhood. I hope I didn’t miss his entire life. The Templars and the Blight have destroyed so much for us. I just hope they haven’t destroyed it all._

It seemed that, despite the death of the Archdemon, there was still a rogue band of darkspawn terrorizing the arling of Amaranthine. It would need to be sorted out and put down, but once that was done, Anders was sure he would be free to resume his search for the Hawkes. Oddly, the sense of urgency was gone now that he did not have to fear being captured by the Templars, and he found a certain satisfaction in exacting vengeance on the creatures that had killed Malcolm and Bethany Hawke and had destroyed the peace of the family.

_The Blight is over,_ Anders thought.  _They survived it or... they didn’t. Either way, there is nothing I can do for them at a distance. The Warden-Commander plucked me out of the Circle for good, gave me a vocation. If Caitlyn lives... if our son lives... I can bring them here and support them on my Grey Warden stipend. My first duty now is to help Lady Cousland with what’s happening in this arling. That is urgent. If Caitlyn did... make it... then she is safe, wherever she is._

* * *

_“Justice?”_ Anders exclaimed, his eyes wide with surprise.

The body of Warden Kristoff stirred and blinked. “Yes,” he said. “I did not intend to leave the Fade, but it seems that I did.”

_The Hawkes were evicted from their home by darkspawn. I have no home either now, unless the Wardens count. And Justice has just been kicked out of his too._ He was devastated. The connection between them, the mental link, was not gone, but this was horribly  _wrong._ Justice did not deserve this. What would  _happen_ to a Fade spirit once the body that he had taken decayed beyond the ability to sustain him? Would he just... disappear? Fade away, as it were? It was horrible, and the idea of it sickened Anders. Justice had saved his life in the Circle, had helped him to become a powerful Healer, and had just now fought beside him to defeat a mass murderer. This was  _wrong._ It was unfair. It was... unjust.

“Come,” the spirit said through the body of Kristoff. “We have work to do yet.”

Although it seemed impossible, Anders wondered if Justice had spent enough time with him that he was able to understand compassion and other feelings that were different from his own nature. There was a certain sad tone to his voice, as if he knew what Anders was thinking.

Anders rose to his feet and picked up his staff, nodding in resignation.  _I will find a solution, friend,_ he thought as he followed the spirit to confront the Baroness again.  _I won’t let you die, not after you kept me alive so many times._

* * *

_The Crown and Lion, Amaranthine._

“To the Vigil!” exclaimed Nathaniel Howe, raising his flagon. “Restored and protected, as it should be!”

“I’ll drink to that,” grunted Loghain, joining the toast.

“We’ll need every one of the upgrades once the darkspawn make their stand,” agreed Sigrun. “I don’t envy the ones who have to fight the Mother, if it is... what I think.”

Anders drew his flagon away, frowning. “What _do_ you think this ‘Mother’ is?” he inquired. “You, Oghren, and Loghain have been very cagey about that.”

It was true. He and Justice had been virtually inseparable, but they had not been sent on some of the Warden-centric missions and did not fully understand of what the others spoke. Loghain and Oghren had been out with the Warden-Commander on the day that Sigrun joined the company, and they had all come back very grim despite having acquired a new Warden. Anders had caught mutterings between the dwarves, with sad, pitying glances thrown his way that they must have thought he had not seen. They also did not want to talk about this mysterious “Mother,” even though they all seemed to know what it was—as well as the Warden-Commander. Well,  _she_ at least tended to keep to herself in general, wanting to keep a certain distance between herself and her Wardens due to her authority. They did not have that excuse. They were keeping something from him, and he did not care for it. If it was Warden business, as it surely must be, he needed to know.

They looked as if they finally wanted to tell, but Nathaniel shook his head faintly. “This is not the time to discuss that,” he said. “How about another toast?”

Constable Aidan raised his flagon. “A toast to the ones we’re fighting for!” he exclaimed. His eyes softened. “My lovely wife and twin boys.”

“Aye,” Oghren said, foam dribbling down his beard. “Felsi.” He clanked his against the constable’s.

“The Queen,” Loghain said at once, joining in, the closest thing to a smile on this face that Anders had ever seen.

“Yes, Maker keep Her Majesty and the King,” said Aidan, joining the toast to Anora. The smile melted away as Loghain glowered at the mention of Alistair, but he did not respond verbally.

Nathaniel had been gazing in concern at Anders, clearly not liking this toast topic at all, but finally he managed a weak smile. “My sister Delilah and her husband.” The foam in his flagon spilled slightly over the side as he clanked it against the others.

Sigrun smiled weakly. “Mischa, Stone preserve her. Glad I could fix the friendship.”

Anders had been stricken for the entire toast, but finally, he raised his own flagon and joined it to the rest almost soundlessly. “If you made it, I swear I’ll find you, love,” he murmured, not looking at the others but, rather, at the tabletop, “and if not... I’ll join you someday.”

His companions were struck silent as they brought their flagons back. Aidan gazed at the mage. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know—”

“It’s all right,” he said.

“Who was she? Were you _married?”_

Anders ignored the fact that Aidan was speaking of Caitlyn in past tense. “We were going to be. I was captured and taken back to the Circle before we could.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “We were expecting a baby.” Across the table, all four Grey Wardens gaped in shock at that revelation. Somehow it seemed to be common knowledge that he had had a lover who had gone missing in the Blight, but no one had known _that._

The constable frowned. “I’ve never really thought about it, but that’s just not right, separating couples like that, taking you away from your child. If you can be a Grey Warden outside the Circle, you could’ve stayed with her, as I see it. Obviously you’re a good sort.”

Anders nodded at him. “It means a lot to me that you said that, truly. I wish more people felt the same.” He sighed. “She lived in Lothering.” Grimaces spread across all of the others’ faces, but he continued determinedly. “I visited what was left of the town... I didn’t see... proof that she died. I also saw a small child’s bed in their house. I’m not going to give up hope,” he said, trying to make himself believe it. “And after we’ve solved the darkspawn problems in this arling, we Wardens should have a respite. I’m going to look for them then.”

“I hope you can find them,” said Aidan. He raised his flagon. “To your success, Warden.”

As the others joined in silently, Anders noted that Loghain and, especially, Oghren seemed very pessimistic about the likelihood of that. But whatever the dwarf knew—or thought he knew—that was so negative, Anders understood that it would do him no good to hear it, since he could not know if it were really true. If Oghren had something definitive, he would’ve said it, of that Anders was certain, so this was just a dire possibility of some sort. Still, he felt a hole of despair upon seeing their faces....  _ No, _ he told himself sternly.  _ I won’t give up unless I have proof that they’re gone. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is really, really dark, but honestly, under these circumstances I think this conclusion about Hawke’s fate would be unavoidable. Poor Anders, once he finds out what they’re all keeping secret from him next chapter. _Don’t stop believin’_ , though, Anders.
> 
> Regarding Loghain, I get that they didn’t want to deal with making him and Alistair full-fledged companions, depending on whom (if either) you have. Still, from a _story_ perspective, it heavily implies a personal FU from the Grey Warden command post in Weisshaupt to send him to Orlais of all places, especially when Ferelden is the country that suffered a Blight and the near-obliteration of its Wardens. Why they couldn’t make Warden Loghain interchangeable with Warden Alistair (who is “scouting Ferelden for the Thaw,” which still is stupid given the troubles in Amaranthine but at least isn't an insult), I don’t know, but it makes Weisshaupt look extremely corrupt very early on. (Maybe that was the point.) In this story, Cousland didn’t put up with that and informed them that he was needed in Ferelden.


	10. First Amongst Equals, Bound to No Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lyric from “Control the Divine” by Blind Guardian, which is about the rebellion of Lucifer, but I think can work well for Spirits of the Fade. There’s no hidden message in this choice; I’m not implying that Justice is Lucifer (though I would be fully down for a dark AU like that). I just like the song. :P
> 
> **Warning: There is an _extremely_ graphically violent scene, and this is the first time I’ve ever thought a depiction of violence/gore in a story of mine deserved the Explicit rating.**

The Wardens were ready to defend Amaranthine.

“Oghren, Sigrun, and Velanna,” Cousland said, nodding at each of them in turn, “you will fight with Warden Loghain to defend Vigil’s Keep. He is in charge until I have returned. The rest of you”—she looked at Nathaniel, Anders, and Justice-Kristoff, who unfortunately was starting to bear unmistakable signs of decay—“will come with me to Amaranthine and secure the city. From there we will hunt down and destroy the Mother.”

Anders knew better than to object publicly in front of the rest of the Wardens, but as soon as he had a private moment, he spoke to Cousland. “I think I would do better at Vigil’s Keep,” he said in an undertone. “Velanna can be your mage just as well, I’m sure.”

Cousland shook her head. “I want you on this mission, Anders. The civilians in Amaranthine may need a Healer.” She lowered her voice even further. “And between us, I hope Vigil’s Keep does not fall—I hope our upgrades are sufficient—but if it does, as a Cousland, I cannot risk inflaming Amaranthine by losing Nathaniel after denying him the opportunity to fight for his family’s city, and you fight better alongside Justice. I have reasons for choosing this team.”

 _Well,_ he thought, _that is a consideration._ Still unhappy, he managed to resign himself to it.

At last, he knew what to expect at the end of the Mother’s lair. Sigrun had told him: The Mother was a female darkspawn, she had said, that sat in one place and produced innumerable darkspawn from egg sacs. Anders wondered why they had kept this from him for so long; he supposed he had always assumed that the darkspawn on the surface included females, but at the same time, it seemed fitting that the process would instead involve something insect-like, as this apparently was. He was rather offended when he thought about his fellow Wardens’ secrecy; did they think learning about this would unman him? Why? It would be a slow grind to kill it, and it could spit poison and lash out, but it seemed like a manageable—if exceedingly unpleasant—fight. Defending Vigil’s Keep would have been much more Anders’ preference... but the Warden-Commander had made her decision.

Anders found himself greatly respecting Warden-Commander Cousland once he learned more about what she had done in the Blight. Evidently, she had not only saved what few mages could be saved at the Circle, but she had made peace between a clan of Dalish elves and a pack of werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, and had resolved a dwarven civil war. She had also spared Loghain and managed to unite the two sides of Ferelden’s civil war with her scheme for the King and Queen. In fact, the only dubious or even vaguely negative thing he had heard about her was that she allowed a mage to use a blood magic ritual to help Arl Eamon’s mage son and that this had required the sacrificial death of the boy’s mother. There must have been reasons, he supposed. Perhaps it was the best of a set of bad choices. Oghren had said, over drink admittedly, that the ritual could have been done without blood magic if she had brought in the few surviving Circle mages to do it, but that she hadn’t wanted to risk losing them at Redcliffe. Justice deeply approved of the Warden-Commander, and that was good enough for him. He looked forward to the conclusion of this mission, so he could resume his search for the remaining Hawkes, and then—hopefully—bring them here, to be supported in relative comfort on his Grey Warden salary. It was not the life he had expected to lead, but he could live with it.

* * *

_Later._

Anders stared in abject horror at the bloated, unnatural corpse of the Mother, burned and stabbed in dozens of places, its head and torso basically collapsing into the vast bulk below.

“That... wasn’t always a darkspawn,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

Nathaniel shook his head. “No. It wasn’t.”

“It cannot be,” he said, almost as if to himself. “That isn’t _possible.”_ He gazed at the repeating rows of breasts and the thing’s lack of legs. “That _cannot happen._ Wherever it comes from, it _can’t_ be....” He could not finish the sentence. Saying it would make it real.

Justice and Nathaniel exchanged uneasy glances. Nathaniel spoke again. “This one was human once. It can happen to elven or dwarven women too—probably also qunari, though I’ve never seen one of those....” He trailed off.

“Captives,” Anders whispered, ignoring the others, transfixed in shock and horror at the dead bulk before him. “That’s why they take captives.”

Justice pushed Nathaniel aside and whispered to Anders, “Justice has been done upon the Architect for this.”

Anders gazed back at the body that bore the Fade spirit, eyes wide and hollow. “That’s not nearly enough,” he said weakly.

“Anders,” Warden-Commander Cousland said gently, finally interposing, “you need to come away from there. It won’t help anything to stare at it... at her. We need to leave.”

He remained on his knees, slumped over, clutching his staff, head hung in devastation.

Her voice was sharper. “Anders, get up. It wasn’t your girl.”

That got Anders to his feet. A bolt of lightning sizzled in an arc from the top of his staff to the hand holding it. Rage flooded him at a sudden realization. “That’s why you insisted that I come instead of defending Vigil’s Keep,” he accused. “You knew what the Mother was; you’ve seen these things before, no doubt. You _wanted_ me to see it—you wanted me to think that that’s what happened to her.” He glared at his commander. _“Why?_ How could you be so cruel?”

Cousland drew her blades and kept them at the ready, though she did not point them at Anders. “That’s enough. If you wish to discuss this further, we will do so _privately_ back at the Keep—but this conversation is at an end for now. As Warden-Commander, I order you to get away from there and come back with us.”

Anders glared in fury but obeyed the commander. The electricity magic crackling down his staff faded. He scowled behind Cousland’s back but said nothing.

Cousland sheathed her blades on her back and strode to the front of the small group. Nathaniel raised a sardonic eyebrow at her. “You’re bold to draw blade on a mage,” he muttered in an undertone too low for Anders to hear.

She walked in front of him. “I am bold, Nathaniel. You of all people know that.”

Justice hesitated for a moment before walking over to the mage and murmuring something to him. Anders lifted his head, nodded, swallowed, and finally looked away from the vast bulk to take his place with the group of Wardens. Cousland did not know what it was that Justice had said, but the gist was clear. She suppressed a frown. She had known what awaited them at the end, what the Mother had to be, and had taken Anders on this for a reason, painful though it would be to him. He needed to see and understand, comprehend the nature and magnitude of the evil they fought as Grey Wardens. He needed to understand it _personally._ She understood that Justice was trying to get him through the immediate moment, but she did not want him giving Anders further false hope.

* * *

Anders fully intended to discuss the Mother once they made it back to Vigil’s Keep—which _was_ still standing, and all the Wardens therein had survived. Righteous outrage and determination to check every single town in Ferelden for the Hawkes had overpowered him on the way back. But somehow, all of that fled his mind, replaced by a burning, vindictive fury at the sight before him.

“He wishes to join the Wardens,” Loghain said, distaste on his face as he and the others glared at the recruit.

Ser Rolan, still in his Templar armor, smiled in what he must have supposed was a self-deprecating way at Warden-Commander Cousland, but Anders knew better. That grin concealed malice. Ser Rylock had been a zealot, but Anders could not actually fault her for her accusation of setting a demon loose in the Circle tower—he _had_ done so, after all. Ser Rolan was a different order of magnitude. He was not just a very conservative zealot, but a twisted person who took pleasure in inflicting cruelty and believed that mages should all be eliminated, whether by execution or Tranquility. Velanna was staring at the Templar as if she wanted to kill him, and although Anders had never gotten along with the Dalish mage, he found himself in full agreement and wishing that she _had._

 _He is the reason everything went so wrong,_ Anders thought in growing outrage. _Rylock was the other one, but he was the leader. If not for him, I would be with the Hawkes right now. None of this would have happened if not for him. How dare he show his face here? How dare he claim to want to join the Grey Wardens? What a filthy lie—as if this murderous bastard would want anything other than exactly what he currently had!_

Warden-Commander Cousland noticed Anders’ expression of utter hatred and was taken aback for a moment. She turned back to her lieutenant at once. “Has he slain darkspawn?” she said coolly.

“He has,” Loghain said, his lips curling. “He gathered his own darkspawn blood. He knows about the ritual now. We must administer it. His name is Rolan,” he added.

Cousland gazed at the smirking man. “Thank you for your service in support of the Grey Wardens,” she said in clipped tones. “If I may... what inspired you to wish to leave the Templar Order?”

Rolan shook his head sadly. Anders felt his blood heat up in anger; that was fake sorrow if he ever saw it. “My Chantry was destroyed in the Blight,” he said, his head hanging low.

Anders could not stand to keep silent any longer. “Warden-Commander,” he protested, “I _know_ this Templar. He captured me twice. He never served at a Chantry! He just led hunts for apostates across Ferelden. Greagoir banished him from Kinloch Hold for murdering mages!”

“Anders,” Cousland said sharply. She turned back to Rolan, eyes hard. “Is that true?”

“I certainly rounded up apostates on the Knight-Commander’s orders,” Rolan said blithely. “I have _never_ murdered mages, however.”

“You _liar!”_ Anders exclaimed, pointing a finger accusingly at Rolan. “You did the Rite of Tranquility, and he kicked you out after too many mages died in your custody!”

“Anders,” Cousland repeated, giving him a very hard look. _“Be silent._ That is an _order.”_ She stared at the Templar. “You understand, Warden mages are _never_ to be made Tranquil. Period. You are also never to use your Templar skills against fellow Wardens.”

 _She’s going to let him take the Joining,_ Anders thought in despair. He turned to Cousland, eyes pleading and miserable, but she shook her head briefly.

“But what if I’m being menaced?” Rolan said in a falsely pitiful tone of voice, trying oh-so-hard to keep the smirk off his face as he observed the interaction between Cousland and Anders. “You must understand, Warden-Commander, mages can sometimes lose control. Demons, you know.”

Beside Anders, Justice tensed. Anders panicked and placed a hand gently on the shoulder of Kristoff’s body to calm him; the last thing they needed right now was for Rolan to take too strong of an interest in Justice. Perhaps in the shadows of Vigil’s Keep, the decay of Kristoff’s body would not be apparent. Perhaps Rolan would die in the Joining and never have to learn about Justice at all. _Perhaps I can poison the chalice for the fucker,_ Anders thought—but realistically, he doubted that the Warden-Commander would let him into the room.

Cousland’s nostrils flared. “All right. If a fellow Warden threatens you, you may defend yourself. But _not_ with lethal force.” She breathed deeply, clearly wishing this to be over. “The darkspawn have magic users among themselves. Your Templar abilities will be very useful to neutralize darkspawn emissaries, as they are called. The King, as you may know, once served as a Grey Warden, and he was trained as a Templar. We have been without these abilities since he assumed the throne.”

Rolan smirked and rummaged in his pack until he found a glass vial. “This contains the darkspawn blood that Warden Loghain asked me to collect,” he said sycophantically. “I await your command.”

“Loghain, take him to the throne room. I will be there presently.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose as Loghain and Rolan left, exhaling in exasperation through her mouth.

“Warden-Commander,” Anders pleaded, “are you really going to do this? That man came here because he has it in for me. I’m certain of it. We have... a history.”

Cousland’s grey-blue eyes were pained. “Anders,” she said, grimacing, “I do understand how you feel. But... I must act honorably as Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Loghain and Nathaniel both joined us, despite the fact that I had reasons to hold grudges against both of them. They have served with courage and honor as Grey Wardens. If Ser Rolan survives the Joining, he will not be a Templar anymore, but a Warden.”

“Loghain and Nathaniel saw that they were wrong,” Anders said quietly. “Facts persuaded them. Ser Rolan... is oblivious to facts, Warden-Commander.”

She sighed heavily. “He defended the Keep, Anders. He collected darkspawn blood. He already knows that much about the Joining ritual. I cannot break faith and slay him now. He must take the Joining. I will impress upon him that he no longer has any authority over you, if he survives.”

* * *

Ser Rolan did survive. Anders supposed it made sense that a corruption as vile as the Taint would accept a sadist... _but what does that say about me?_ he thought at once. He sighed. It wasn’t fair that a well-meaning, if annoying, recruit like Ser Mhairi would die, while this bastard would survive. It wasn’t fair or just. There was no justice in the world.

 _Even Justice is suffering,_ he thought. Anders got up from his Warden bunk to sit at the table beside Justice, who never slept. In the candlelight, the deterioration of Kristoff’s body was clear and horrifying. The flesh was decaying rapidly, almost hanging off the extremities already.

 _I’ve failed you,_ Anders thought as he stared into the strange undead eyes. _I meant to research ways to send you back to the Fade, but I haven’t done it. I’ve been occupied with the Architect and the Mother...._ At that thought, he wanted to cry. The shock of seeing Ser Rolan, of all people, turn up at the Keep had almost put it out of his mind, but it had all come back now. _If this fucker is going to serve as a Warden, I have to get out of here and search for the Hawkes,_ he thought. _I cannot serve alongside him. He came here to harass me. That is the only reason he would leave the Templar Order. Ser Rylock must have reported what became of me, and he decided to do this as a result._

“I do not understand why the Warden-Commander would let him escape justice,” rumbled the figure across from Anders. He was very displeased. “He did murder mages. Those failed Tranquilizations were not accidental... and that does not excuse it either. The Rite is a crime against sapience.” Justice glowered. “He also is indeed the primary cause of what happened to you and the ones you care for.”

“We’ve got to leave, Justice,” Anders said quietly in case any of the other Wardens were awake. “I have to find them. I have to know, after seeing that thing today. And... I have to help you. I’m sorry I haven’t done so yet.” He sighed heavily. “I won’t let you fade away.”

_Is everything and everyone I ever cared for going to disappear? Everyone who did something to help me, to give me a reason to live? The ones who seem to survive, to never go away, are the ones who brought misery into my life, while the ones who provided happiness and comfort disappear. I can’t let this happen. I have to save him. He saved me._

Kristoff’s cheeks were hollow, the flesh vaguely cake-like. The body would not hold together much longer. “Warden Nathaniel... spoke to me about a new idea,” Justice said hesitantly. “About a voluntary possession.”

“Possession is always voluntary,” Anders said.

“But with demons, there is trickery involved. It is not truly voluntary, and there is no sharing. The demon takes over the mortal entirely, even if the body continues to assume its original mortal form. What your fellow Warden spoke of was something different.”

Anders gazed ahead nervously, then back to Justice. “You mean—sharing the body and mind of a mortal? Truly sharing?”

The corpse nodded. Anders averted his eyes from the sight of the flesh cracking as it did. “I have no desire to assume control of another sapient being. It would be an act of injustice to deny anyone free will. But to share, with the full consent of the one whose body it is... to _help_ a mortal with my own powers while not taking over the mortal’s mind... that is different.”

Anders stared ahead. He felt his skin crawling at what Justice seemed to be implying, but he did trust the spirit. “I’ll keep it in mind, Justice,” he finally said. “Let’s see if I can find another answer before trying anything like that, though.”

* * *

The Deep Roads glimmered in the Fade, strangely attenuated and darker than they had been in real life. Anders gripped his staff, following behind the shadowy forms of the other Wardens, as they approached the Mother. Justice was not present. Anders wondered if he simply could not enter the Fade at all through a dead man’s body. What a horrible fate it would be. The Fade was his home. This was almost like the spirit itself had been made Tranquil....

The long, vast shadow of the Mother loomed ahead, darkening the tunnel even more. A sickening cackle pierced the air.

 _I don’t want to turn the corner,_ Anders thought suddenly. _I don’t. I don’t want to see this._ But his feet kept moving—or the Fade moved beneath his feet; he was not sure.

The cackling grew ever louder as he drew nearer to the creature. He held his breath.

The Mother’s head was bent, but he knew at once that something was wrong. The actual broodmother had had very dark hair. This one’s was flame-red, though matted and filthy.

“You came too late.”

Anders did not want to look, but he could not stop himself. He gazed up. The Mother’s head was still bent, but the thing held five heads in its tentacles, all of them decayed, torn blood vessels and broken spines protruding from their necks. _Malcolm, Leandra, Bethany, Carver, and..._ the fifth head was small and strawberry blond.

“You were too late,” the Mother repeated, its voice horribly familiar and full of rage. “You failed me. You betrayed me.” At last, it raised its head, revealing exactly the face Anders feared. He could hardly stand to look, but neither could he look away.

“You deserve what has come to you,” seethed the _thing_ bearing Caitlyn Hawke’s head. “You deserve to be under that Templar’s watchful eye. You deserve all of it for what you let happen to us.”

“No,” he pleaded in a whisper. “I didn’t—this is not real—it’s just the Fade—I would _never....”_

The thing grinned, revealing blackened teeth and a split mouth. “You did.”

“This _is not real!”_ _Justice, help,_ he pleaded, though he knew that the spirit could not hear him now. _Wake up,_ he urged himself. _I have to wake up._

“It could be real,” the creature said, still grinning, as Anders felt himself blessedly leaving the Fade and returning to the real world. _“It could be real._ And if it is, you’ll _never know....”_

* * *

Anders awoke in his bed, thrashing. Instinctively he reached for the knife he kept nearby, grabbing it and heaving breaths as he came to. In his other hand, crackles of lightning popped, illuminating the male Wardens’ dormitory with a stark light.

“Blasted mage,” groused Oghren, who was also coming to.

Anders heaved his breath and set the knife back down. He forced himself to still his magic, and the lightning faded away, leaving a temporary dark spot in his field of vision. His heart was pounding. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Nightmare.”

Oghren grunted and sat upright. “In fairness, I don’t know how you sorry bastards stand the Fade,” he said. He rummaged through the pack that he kept shoved to the side of his bunk next to the wall and tossed a small bottle at Anders. “Have some of that. It’ll help.”

Anders uncorked the bottle at once and took a deep pull without thinking twice. Startled, he set it down. Whatever this was, it was actually _good._ Strong, but good.

“That’s a bit of the White Shear,” Oghren said. “You ain’t getting the main stash, mind.”

Anders took another deep pull, feeling the liquor burn as he swallowed, and almost instantly felt lightheaded. Momentarily he wondered what proof this was.... “Thanks, Oghren,” he said, meaning it. “It’s good. Just what I needed.” He took another sip, trying to be careful now, but definitely wanting to drink enough to put himself into a _dreamless_ sleep.

“It was that thing you killed, wasn’t it?”

Anders set down the bottle. “Yes,” he said simply.

“That’s tough,” the dwarf said sympathetically. “I’ve seen it in the Deep Roads... my first wife, in fact... well, she didn’t become one, but she turned her people into them. Crazy woman. The Warden-Commander killed her for it.”

Anders took another sip. “I won’t believe it. I’m going to ask her tomorrow for a leave of absence. I can’t deal with that Templar anyway.”

“He seems like a real prick,” Oghren agreed. “The elf wanted to cut him down immediately. Hey—don’t have _too_ much of that. I can handle it, but I’m not so sure about your fragile magey self, you know?”

Anders glared back at the dwarf, and just for that, took a defiantly long pull, even though it burned his throat and he was not quite sure he should have. His stomach was suddenly rebelling against any more. “I’m fine,” he lied. “Thank you.” He corked the bottle and tossed it back to the dwarf.

* * *

Anders was hungover the next morning. He knew it as soon as he awakened and a pounding, pulsating headache immobilized him in bed. He attempted to use healing on himself, which did help a bit. At least he could get to his feet now.

He stumbled into his Warden robes and left the dormitories, passing by the common room of Vigil’s Keep, where he caught Ser Rolan—now Warden Rolan, he supposed—out of the corner of one eye. The sight enraged him, but he kept going until he reached the Warden-Commander’s office.

She was writing a letter, which she covered as soon as she admitted him. “Good morning,” she said, sounding weary. He supposed that the events of the previous day had been hard on everyone.

“Good morning, Commander,” he said formally. “I have come here to make a request.”

She waited.

He took a deep breath. “Since we have quelled the darkspawn attacks and slain the Architect and the Mother, I thought I would ask you for a period of leave. An... indefinite period,” he added, grimacing. “And... given the fact that the Templars, some of them anyway, are obviously still out to get me, I am also asking for official transit papers sealed with the Grey Warden seal, to ensure that they’ll let me alone.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What are you intending to do that you need letters of transit for?”

He was uneasy, but he supposed he had better tell her the truth. “I have to find the family I knew. The woman I knew. I have to know,” he said, blanching inwardly at the sudden emotional surge, but it could not be helped. “I have to keep looking,” he said, his voice almost broken, his eyes haunted. “I _have_ to know, after what we saw yesterday.”

Cousland glanced uncomfortably at him. “I’m sorry, Anders, but I cannot permit you to visit every dockyard in Ferelden. If they did not leave from Highever, West Hill, or Amaranthine, there is no other port that makes much sense for a family from Lothering seeking Kirkwall.”

“Maybe they left south of Denerim,” he said desperately. “I admit I don’t know why... the northern ports are much closer to Kirkwall and would be less treacherous to get to... but _maybe.”_

“And if they didn’t? What will you do if there are no passenger records from any port town in Ferelden, Anders? Are you going to check every single village, every city neighborhood, in the country to see if they are living there? You must accept what their fate likely was—”

“You don’t know that! Your brother wasn’t dead, and neither was Nathaniel’s sister!”

“That was good luck. It was not something I could have predicted given the available facts, and I do not believe that my decision to focus on the Blight instead of searching for my brother was the wrong decision. Neither does he. I do understand what you’re feeling. I lost family too, Anders,” she said, her voice momentarily cracking. She cleared her throat. “But I don’t believe in shielding people from unhappy truths.”

“You _don’t know_ that it is the truth! Your brother was lucky. Maybe some of the Hawkes got lucky too. You don’t _know,_ and if you don’t let me look for them—”

“You said yourself that you burned the body of her little sister, but that _her_ body was nowhere to be found,” said the Warden-Commander. “You also said most of their possessions remained in their house, including the ring you gave her.”

“Maybe she was angry at me,” he whispered. “Maybe she left it on purpose.”

“They were not a wealthy family. If they evacuated carrying so little, why would she leave a valuable piece of jewelry behind if she could have sold it instead? Anders, you need to face reality. I’m sorry that it has come to this.” She sighed heavily. “I heard from my partner in Orlais, Sister Leliana, the one who asked about you in the Circle. It occurred to me that she might have been asking on behalf of someone in Lothering, perhaps even your lover, and so just in case she _was_ in touch, I wanted to let her know that you were still alive so she could pass on the word if so.” Cousland ran one hand over the top of her head. “She wrote back that she had indeed made the inquiry for someone else, but that she had no idea anymore how to reach that family.”

Anders closed his eyes as if to block it out. _She was asking for the Hawkes. No one else in Lothering ever knew me. They were still thinking about me, asking about me, when the Blight began. She still wanted to be with me._ He wanted to scream in misery. _One week earlier and I could have helped them. Curse the Templars to the end of the Void for this._

“They _meant_ to go to Kirkwall, she had written, but the Kirkwall authorities did not keep information on specific Fereldan refugees,” Cousland continued.

“Oh, Maker,” he moaned. “Yes—it’s the same family.”

Cousland gazed sadly at him. “After a time, refugees were just turned away and sent back—and those are the ones who made it out of Ferelden. You know for a fact that at least one of this family did not even make it out of Lothering, and you have found no evidence that any of them made it to the Coastlands. Please believe me when I say that I’m deeply sorry.” As painful as it was to see his face, she sincerely believed she was doing the right thing by forcing him to face this. “Yes, I wanted you to see the Mother. I wanted you to know what we are truly facing, even when the Blight is over. The threat remains, and _this_ is the nature of it. They take _mothers_ from their _children,_ kill the children, and turn the women into monsters.” She stared hard at him, her words pointed and personal, and he knew it. A flaming fury began to simmer within him as she spoke. “When it became apparent that the rest of the Wardens were protecting you from the knowledge of broodmothers, I made my decision. I hoped that seeing this thing would reinforce the importance of the Grey Wardens to you.”

Anders drew back, stung and betrayed, as he stared at his commander. He could not take it anymore. He could not. “Fuck you,” he hissed.

Cousland’s eyes popped in sudden anger. “Excuse me?”

“Fuck you,” he repeated more loudly, taking strength from the words. “You used me—you used my loss to manipulate me.” He gazed at her in outrage. “I respected you, Commander. You defended the mages, you helped people, you slew the Archdemon, you didn’t listen to the Architect... I respected you!” He was practically shouting now. “How can you ask me to respect you if you use me like this? I _loved_ her, and we _had a child!_ The only child I can ever have now that I bear the Warden corruption. How _could_ you—” He tugged on the griffon tabard he wore as if to tear it off.

Her nostrils flared. “I will forgive this insult this time, Anders. You are shocked and grieving. But you should remember: You are a Grey Warden, for life, and I am your commander. This had better not happen a second time.”

“Don’t worry,” he said curtly. “It won’t.”

“Is that meant to be a threat, Warden?”

“No, Commander,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice cold. “I merely do not wish to discuss this topic with you ever again.” He whirled around to face the office door, then stalked out.

* * *

_Curse the Templars to the Black City itself. Curse them, curse that miserable bastard fucker Ser Rolan, curse Greagoir and Irving, curse the Archdemon and the darkspawn and curse the Maker Himself—and curse me._

Anders had dug through Oghren’s pack until he found the same bottle of White Shear that he had drunk from last night. He was nursing himself in a dark corner of the dormitories once again.

He was still angry that Warden-Commander Cousland had not even given him the chance to _look—_ but with another day’s worth of liquor in him already, he was no longer angry at _her,_ and in fact felt ashamed of himself for lashing out at her so rudely.

 _She saved me,_ he thought miserably, resting his head on his bent knees as he clutched the bottle with one hand. _She saved me from being put to death by Ser Rylock, freed me of the Circle for good, and that’s how I repaid her. This is how I treat everyone who helps me—this or worse. If I don’t curse them and insult them, I get them killed. And the worst thing is, she’s probably right._

That was the thought he had not wanted to face, but now, he could not push it from his mind. _I burned Bethany’s body. She was the only one I saw. Carver probably did die at Ostagar, and who would have been left? Two women and a little child. My son was probably... that tree... the darkspawn probably...._ He could not put the thought together in a complete sentence, but he didn’t have to. _And I know now what the darkspawn do to women. The Warden-Commander is probably right._

He replaced the bottle in Oghren’s pack and filled a jug with water from one of the wells. He took swigs of it, helping himself to food that was always around at any Grey Warden fortress, until he felt slightly more sober. _I have to find a better way of coping,_ he thought. _I don’t need to turn to the bottle. As a Healer, I know better than this._

Mustering up his dignity, he returned to the Warden-Commander’s office to apologize.

* * *

Anders lay on his bed for most of the day, feeling utterly miserable. He had thought that the worst possible outcome would have been for all of the Hawkes to be dead, but that was no longer the case. Death would have been a blessing compared to— _that._ It was unthinkable that his vivacious, intelligent, ferocious fire mage could have met such an appalling fate. Unthinkable, unjust, _blasphemous._

And now, he could not even escape to the Fade, because the Fade would produce nothing but miserable visions for him—and even Justice was no longer there to make it a little bit easier. _There is no respite anywhere,_ he thought.

Justice. He could still help Justice, he thought. He rubbed his eyes and gingerly rose from his bed to go to the Warden library in Vigil’s Keep. There were books about magic there. Perhaps one of them would contain an answer.

* * *

There _were_ rituals to send stranded spirits back to the Fade, Anders had found, but they required a large number of mages—far more than the Fereldan Wardens had, certainly—or a blood sacrifice. He recalled the stories he’d heard about Warden-Commander Cousland and the choice she’d had to make at Redcliffe; this seemed to be a similar situation. _Justice did have another suggestion,_ Anders thought darkly. _Perhaps I should take it. Perhaps that’s what I ought to do. I cannot help the Wardens anymore. The situation in this arling is resolved, so it would be “business as usual” from now on, and I don’t think I could stand that anymore. I might see more of those things. The time might have come for me to take revenge... no,_ he corrected himself at once, _to pursue justice for mages, since the awful Circle policy is what ultimately caused all of this. Perhaps I should do what Justice suggested and devote the rest of my life to that cause, with him by my side. More than by my side. A part of me. And I do owe him my life._

Rolan entered the Warden library and stared at Anders, not taking any books off the shelves, not even pretending to look for one. Anders gritted his teeth until he could not stand it any longer. At last he whirled around to glare at the former Templar.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“I have as much right as you to be here, mage,” Rolan said.

Anders sneered. “You’re not going to drive me out of the library,” he warned. “If you’re looking for a book, then fine—but I see no evidence of that. You’re here to bully me, but I’m not going anywhere.” A surge of rage suddenly flooded him, and he snapped the book he was holding closed. He advanced on the former Templar. “Listen closely,” he said through clenched teeth, glaring at the man with pure hatred, “I know why you became a Warden. I haven’t missed your little smirks and that pathetically obsequious tone of voice. The Warden-Commander is an honorable woman and is giving you the benefit of a doubt. _I’m not.”_

“I know you have no honor,” Rolan hissed back, undaunted. “You set a demon loose in Kinloch Hold. You were probably part of Uldred’s clique, getting out before they did their worst.”

“I had _nothing to do with them!”_

Rolan ignored this, continuing with a malicious smile on his face. “Uldred, a maleficar and abomination, had more integrity than you, you mewling coward,” he said. “He at least died for his actions. You cut and run.”

Anders felt sparks of lightning charging in his hands. “I was never part of Uldred’s group,” he snarled. “I have never performed blood magic or made deals with demons. You look at every mage and see evil. Maybe that’s because you can’t look past the filter of your own evil, malicious gaze.” Lightning suddenly sparked, arcing between his two opened palms.

The former Templar reacted instinctively to the sight of magic. He held his hand and blasted Anders backward, not with a full Holy Smite, but an anti-magic defense in the same category. Anders felt queasy as he slammed against the bookshelves, feeling his mana level decrease. Suddenly he was horribly vulnerable. He panicked—and then something horrifying happened.

For a moment, this was not the Warden library; it was the roadside and Ser Rolan the Templar towered over him as he attempted to burn Malcolm Hawke’s body, raising his hand, the reek of lyrium surrounding him. It was _so real—_ and Anders cowered, covering his face, trying to block it out, trying desperately to recall where he was as the world spun strangely. Had the Fade intruded into the real world? Was it a rift? His heart pounded frighteningly fast. _Help me, Justice,_ he thought suddenly. _Help. He’s going to kill me._

In a couple of seconds, the sounds of voices in the hall and the welcome darkness of closed, hand-covered eyes pushed the vision from Anders’ mind. He breathed deeply. _This is Vigil’s Keep,_ he told himself. _I am a Grey Warden and this bastard has no authority over me._

Cousland and Justice dashed into the library. Cousland drew her blades from her back at the sight of Anders, curled into himself against a bookcase, Rolan towering over him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Cousland demanded, directing a dagger at Rolan. Her gaze was very hard.

“He used Smite on me,” Anders said at once, pointing at Rolan. He turned to Justice. Had he actually heard Anders’ thoughts? Did the Spirit Healing connection extend that far? _I can’t let you fade away,_ he thought again. _If you are already that closely linked to me, I can’t._

“I did not,” Rolan protested. “It was a Righteous Strike, and the mage threatened me! He had lightning between his hands.”

“I wasn’t going to _use_ it on you, you fool,” Anders snapped. “You were accusing me of conspiring with Uldred! It just made me angry, and I summoned the lightning unintentionally because I was angry.”

 _“See?”_ Rolan chortled, gesturing gleefully at Anders as he appealed to Cousland. “Mages can’t control themselves! Magic bursts out of them when they have strong emotions.”

 _“Enough!”_ Cousland roared. She glared at both of them, but harder at Rolan. “Anders may have lost control of his magic, but _you_ attacked him _deliberately.”_

“Warden-Commander—”

“The two of you are both Wardens,” she said in hard tones. “You must learn to get along with each other. Maker damn it, if I had to learn to get along with Loghain Mac Tir and Nathaniel Howe, you two can do the same.”

“Loghain and Nathaniel were not responsible for the deaths of your family members, Warden-Commander,” Anders could not resist saying.

Cousland ignored that. She stared from one to the other. “I am assigning you two to scout the mines for stragglers tomorrow. Justice,” she said, turning to the body of Kristoff, “you are in charge.”

* * *

Rolan was deathly, menacingly silent as they all trekked toward the entrance of the mine. Finally, he spoke.

“So,” he said, his voice dark and cold, “you are ‘Justice.’ As in, a demon? And you’ve taken over the dead body of a Grey Warden?”

“I am not a demon,” Justice replied.

“Spirit, demon, what’s the difference?” sneered Rolan. “I am shocked at the degree of depravity in the Grey Wardens. A blood magic ritual to join, mages larking about unsupervised, and a Fade demon occupying a body! I cannot believe that a Cousland finds this acceptable. I thought better of that family, and I am sure the Lady Seeker in Orlais will be delighted to know about this.”

“You really are an idiot, you know,” Anders remarked as they reached the mine entrance. “You have two witnesses who can testify to the Warden-Commander of what you said about her, as well as that threat. The Templars and Seekers have no authority over the Grey Wardens.”

“That might just change if they knew what went on,” Rolan said. “And as for the two witnesses....” He drew his blade.

Justice and Anders were ready. Anders blasted Rolan with a powerful lightning spell as Justice charged forward, bearing Kristoff’s sword—but the former Templar had a lot of practice fighting off magic, and his own use of lyrium had given him some immunity. He threw off Anders’ spell quickly and blasted the mage back with another nauseatingly stunning Righteous Strike, or whatever it was, then began to engage Justice.

Anders was thrown to the ground. Until he could recover his strength and his mana, he could do little but watch helplessly as they battled. Kristoff had been a great warrior in life, but after death, his body had decayed and deteriorated, and it was now affecting Justice’s swings. They were stiff and slow.

Time seemed to slow down for Anders as Rolan brought his blade down in an arc, first severing one arm from the dead body, then—as Justice staggered, shocked—the second. He raised his sword and his hand, and Anders felt the scent of lyrium fill the air again. He was going to blast Justice out of the body—or destroy him outright, just as if he really were a demon.

 _No,_ he thought. Summoning every ounce of mana, he struck the ground with his staff. A blast of intensely cold frost spread from it, encasing Rolan in a layer of ice. Anders fumbled in his pocket for a vial of lyrium, downed it, and blasted Rolan again, this time with a Crushing Prison. The combined onslaught of the two spells sent the former Templar unconscious.

Justice had fallen to his knees, unsure of what to do without arms. Anders bounded forward, seizing the sword from Rolan’s fallen form.

“It’s time,” he said to the spirit. There was no doubt in his mind anymore. It was inevitable, fated from the very first time that Justice came to him in his nightmares. That was perfectly clear now. The first nightmare had even been about a horrible thing that had happened to _her,_ his beloved, because of the great injustice of Circle policy. Now that he had failed to get justice for them in life, this was what must happen. He must avenge his lost family—beginning with this _person_ who had started it for him, and who had now attempted to slay both of them.

“You should not do this on impulse,” Justice protested.

“I have thought about it. It’s the only way. You are going to die otherwise... especially now that that bastard has done that to this body. I owe you, and... we already have a connection. I trust you. Just... tell me what I need to do.”

Justice considered before finally nodding. “You must enter the Fade.”

Anders glanced back at Rolan, making sure that he was not about to awaken. It would be disastrous if he saw this while both of them were out of commission. “Yes,” he agreed. “Naturally.”

* * *

_The light isn’t right. It’s harsh and violent. This isn’t right._

_No, it is. This is the sun._

_Why is everything suddenly different?_

_I am Anders._

_I am Justice._

_We are both._

The swirling began to slow, and finally, he was able to disentangle the strands of identity from each other. Some things were permanently melded together, it seemed, like the burning drive to bring justice to mages, but others... memories... were different.

 _Hello, old friend._ Yes, that was his voice, only his.

 _It is done,_ the spirit replied.

Anders blinked. His skin was crackling blue, and he heard, more strongly than ever before, the voice in his head.

He also heard sounds in the physical world. Rolan was stirring at last. He grabbed his staff. What would his magic be like now?

The former Templar got to his feet, staring first at the body that had been Warden Kristoff, then at the mage before him whose eyes were glowing blue-white. “What have you _done,_ you unnatural monster?” he roared.

Anders had had enough. He would not listen to any more of this ignorant zealot’s raving. Images of _her,_ horribly distorted, deformed, no longer herself, filled his mind as he advanced on the former Templar. He felt half in the Fade already.

“You,” he snarled. His voice sounded odd, deeper, but he did not think too hard about that. The rush of rage was too heady. “It wasn’t enough for you to tear me away from _her,_ ruining and probably ending her life? You also tried to kill us?”

Rolan backed away. “I knew you were bad news, and I joined to _watch_ you! Rylock told me that Cousland made you a Warden despite that stunt with the rage demon—and don’t deny it; I may not have been in the tower, but I’m sure you did it. You mages are capable of anything. And what do you mean, ‘us’?” He glared. “You’ve become an abomination, haven’t you?”

The word “abomination” was like detonating a bomb. When Anders spoke again, his voice was definitely not his own, not remotely. He knew that Fade light must be blazing out of his eyes. _“I am no abomination!”_ Filled with the Spirit of Justice— _becoming_ a Spirit of Justice, Anders felt, as he was oddly shoved into the back of his own mind while the other being took over his body—he opened his palm and cast a fireball at the former Templar strong enough to melt metal.

The fireball had decreased in intensity in its path through the air, and when it struck the man, it did only ordinary fire damage to him. However, it did stagger and disorient him. Justice let out a guttural roar and charged the man.

The next few minutes were vague, a cloud of rage, bursts of intense magic, blood, gore, crunching sounds, rips, and screams—two screams at first. He, or Justice, lunged forward with a snarl of rage and pulled at something silver, oblivious to the pain that it caused in his palms; then when that gave way with a metallic snap, he grabbed pieces of it and stabbed repeatedly. The screams of the man on the ground intensified. It irritated him; how dare this one complain about _his_ suffering after the suffering that he had inflicted on others? It was _justice_ that he should suffer. Anders felt a heady burst of Fade energy, heard an explosive crunch, saw a red cloud, and with that, suddenly the second screaming voice was silenced.

The horrific image Anders had invented of Caitlyn Hawke as a broodmother pulsed in his brain as he continued to pound with violent, spattering crunches. His hands hurt more and more with each blow, but that did not deter him. Images of her father, so accepting of his mage children, so unlike his own, the kind of father he’d always wanted and almost, _almost_ had, dead, all because he’d wanted to get Anders’ phylactery away from the Templars; then the dead body of her little sister; then the son he had never seen, _their_ child, whose name he didn’t even know and probably never would, probably one of those decaying heads of children that the darkspawn had hung from the tree in Lothering—all of this because of the evil, cruel, _unjust_ Circle policies. Because _this_ man had taken him away. A new surge of rage filled him, and he reached forward and tore something away in a hot red spray that momentarily blinded him.

At that, Anders drew back, realizing that the spirit had relinquished control. His heart was pounding and his breath was heaving. He glanced down at his fists. They dripped with blood, which had splattered all over his robes. His face was also wet, and he had a feeling that it was from blood spatter too. The reek of iron and copper filled the air and assaulted his nostrils.

There were also... things that weren’t blood, he realized. Something solid but fibrous squished wetly beneath his boot. A piercing, throbbing pain from one hand suddenly grabbed his attention, and he noticed that there was a broken tooth embedded in his palm, in the soft flesh at the base of his left thumb. That was definitely not his. Hair—dark hair, not his hair—that was matted and smeared with blood adhered stickily to his hands and wrapped around some of his fingers. He wrung his hands fiercely, imagining that this would somehow clean them, momentarily refusing to accept reality. Horror dawning on him, he blinked and dared to look at the... _thing_ that had been Warden Rolan.

His armor had been bent in places, sometimes snapped, the broken jagged ends of his bracers forced into his flesh. His chestpiece was completely destroyed, and... Anders could not bring himself to look that closely, but from the amount of blood, the broken ribs sticking out, and the massive red cavern, he guessed that Justice had torn his chest open and probably ripped out his heart, based on the amount of blood present. The— _organ, face the facts, that’s what it is, you murderer,_ he told himself in disgust—under his boot squished again. He did not want to look too closely to see what else he, or Justice, had torn out of Rolan’s body. That kind of prurient fascination with gore was for sick, depraved killers, the worst of the worst—which he wasn’t—no, he _wasn’t_ —

 _Yes you are,_ his mind whispered back.

The man’s head was... basically nonexistent now. Anders, or Justice, had crushed it like a gourd, and from the looks of it, had hit it with dozens of blows, physical and magical, long after the man was dead. There was basically nothing left, just a horrific spatter of blood, brains, and bone, all smeared into clumps of hair. At least, that was all that he could stand to identify.

He could not take any more of it. His breath catching in his chest, his heart pounding now from something entirely different from the rush of violence, Anders backed away from the... body. His back slammed against a tree trunk.

 _Why is there blood on my hands? I am a Healer. There should not be blood on my hands,_ he thought. In an almost manic gesture, he tried to wipe the blood off his fists, to clean his hands, but only dirtied his robes even further. _This isn’t justice. Justice would’ve been to slit his throat or stick a blade in his heart. This is not justice; this is murder. This is vengeance._

_Even good spirits can become corrupted...._

_What have I done? What in the name of the Maker have I done?_

* * *

There was nothing to do now but return to the Vigil to face the Warden-Commander. It was an ignominious end for his great plans, but... perhaps it was all that he deserved now that his first act had been to commit violent, gory murder. Justice was even more upset. _How could that have been my action?_ the spirit thought, deeply troubled.

 _It’s my fault,_ Anders thought in reply. _I’ve ruined you. I ruin everything I touch._

 _I was in control when that happened,_ Justice said sharply.

_But I had already corrupted you._

_I do not feel corrupted. I am not a demon. It was... a lapse. But... nonetheless... we must face justice for it. You are right about that._

Back at the Keep, Warden-Commander Cousland stared back at him, shocked at the story he related. He hung his head, casting his gaze at the floor, as he finished the narrative.

“I understand what the penalty is for killing a fellow Grey Warden,” he said dully. “I... turned myself in so that you can issue the sentence.”

Disturbed, Cousland turned aside, her brow furrowing and her eyebrows knitting together. The truth was, she felt that to some degree, she shared blame for this. It had been a terrible mistake to send the former Templar—the same one who had _captured_ Anders, and who had a personal vendetta against Anders—on a mission with him and a Fade spirit, of all things. She had meant to force them to learn to get along, because she had faith that it could happen due to her experiences working beside Loghain and Nathaniel, but... sometimes people simply could not get along. Sometimes too much lay between them, and some things were unforgivable. Sometimes the only thing that could be done was... justice. _If I’d had to recruit Rendon Howe himself, or any of his thugs who were at my family’s castle that dark night, I couldn’t have,_ she realized. _And if Rolan did menace Justice and Anders, threatening to kill them so that he could tell outsiders about what I do as Warden-Commander...._ She shook her head. This was an unmitigated disaster. She also thought that perhaps she should have given Anders more time to grieve after seeing the Mother, instead of forcing him to deal with the person who was partially responsible for what had happened to his lover and child. Perhaps she also should have let him check a few more ports until he gave up on his own. She had meant well, but it had gone horribly wrong.

Finally she turned back around to face them. “You have confessed to murdering a fellow Grey Warden,” she said. “As you know, the penalty for that is death.”

Anders closed his eyes. So be it. Perhaps it should have come long ago.

“Due to extenuating circumstances, I hereby commute this sentence to lifelong exile from Ferelden,” she continued. Anders’ eyes snapped open in surprise. A wry, sad smile formed on her face as she spoke. “I do _not_ expel you from the order, mind. It is a lifelong oath. I urge you to go to the Free Marches, specifically to Kirkwall, to aid the Blight refugees as a Healer.” She gazed sternly at him. “If you choose to do this, I will provide an official order for you, sealed with the seal of the Grey Wardens, which will provide safe passage, entry to Kirkwall, and security from Templars in the city.”

 _I will probably never see Caitlyn again,_ he thought, seizing on this offer from Cousland like a drowning man grasping at a rope, _but Karl is there. I might be able to help him. I could get him out of the Kirkwall Circle. And I can help the Blight refugees, as she suggested. I can make amends. I may spend my whole life doing it, but I can try._ “Yes,” he gasped. “Thank you, Commander. _Thank_ you.”

She gazed sadly at him. “I will have it ready for you forthwith. Anders... I hope you find peace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot to say here, so accept my apologies for the length of this note.
> 
> Yes, I think Elissa was cruel to take him to fight the Mother so that he would presume this is what happened to Caitlyn and therefore become more determined as a Warden. I think she was out of line to use a personal tragedy in such a way. However, I didn’t intend Elissa’s _nature_ to be cruel (she is with unhardened Leliana, after all), and I think her exile of Anders to Kirkwall under official Warden protection shows her better side. She’s very traumatized too and is forcing herself to be tough and focus on duty to hide from it, so she thinks Anders should do the same. It can also be argued that she tried to do the right thing as a commander. A Warden under her command was distracted from his duties, and she rationally didn’t think there was any hope that he would have a happy conclusion to his search.
> 
> I’ve got a number of problems with the pre-DA2 short story about Anders’ merge with Justice. Check them out [here](https://betagyrewrites.wordpress.com/2018/10/19/spells-of-healing-extended-notes-ch-10/) if you’re interested, but since I’ve changed that story—both Anders’ internal speculations, which are what my extended notes are about, and one aspect of the action itself—I’m leaving the extended notes off this fic to avoid inadvertent confusion about what they apply to. (Also, these regular notes are long enough!)
> 
> In _this_ fic, Rolan without a doubt acted on his own. He had a messed-up personal obsession with Anders and was part of a lawless, fanatical faction of Templars (which I alluded to in chapter 5 when Anders was captured). Anders knows all this and does not speculate otherwise here, unlike in the short story.
> 
> This is the absolute nadir and there is nowhere to go now but up. They meet again in Kirkwall in the next chapter.


	11. Over the Hills and Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just the title of a traditional song. I was partially inspired by Nightwish’s version of it, though.
> 
> There is a scene that is taken almost directly from the game, because it’s the first meeting with Varric and is perfect. If I didn’t ship female mage Hawke with Anders, I’d absolutely ship them.
> 
> Also, regarding a certain paragraph near the beginning, erm, “any similarity to real persons is strictly coincidental.” _Wink._

If Caitlyn had had any more capacity for fury, her uncle Gamlen would be dead now, a charred corpse on the floor of his Lowtown hovel. However, she was, at this point, too tired and emotionally overwhelmed to be able to muster much more rage.

Her mother had been deeply disappointed. It was not just that Gamlen had lost the Amell mansion through gambling. As bad as that was, it _was_ just a house, and Caitlyn and Carver both thought she would have been able to forgive him _that_ eventually, since what remained of the family was now together again. However, he had also indentured Caitlyn and Carver to a smuggler, forcing them to pay off his debts and engage in dangerous, low, criminal work for a full year. _That_ was what Leandra could not forgive—and for that matter, neither could either of her children.

 _What kind of a life am I going to have?_ Caitlyn thought wretchedly as she began her first day on the job with the elven woman Athenril. _Three years ago, I thought I would live next door to my parents with Anders and our family, a quiet but happy and respectable life. Now it seems that I’m going to be a Kirkwall bottom-feeder with a fatherless child and no prospects for anything better._

Instantly she rebuked herself for that. _No,_ she thought. _It is bad, but it could be much worse. At least I am working for a woman who has given me permission to defend myself if... threatened._ She reflected on the fact that already, a couple of ill-bred Kirkwall men had made vulgar comments about the fact that she was a single mother and what they wrongly believed that implied about her “availability.” Athenril had overheard and had told her immediately that, while she didn’t want Caitlyn burning people to a crisp just for nasty talk, she did not have to tolerate being physically menaced, even by business associates. _And this is only for one year. After that, Carver and I can find some way of getting back the Amell manor._ That was something they had decided swiftly; once the extent of Gamlen’s selfishness had become clear, they agreed that they would not be able to live with him for the rest of their lives. Recovering the family estate was a noble goal. It was something to live for. _And I will do it not just for Mother, but for Mal,_ she thought, kissing her child goodbye for the day as he dozed. _If I have anything to say about it, he will grow up protected and never want for anything... except, I suppose, a father._

She wondered if part of the reason she was too tired to be angry at Gamlen was that she had devoted so much mental energy to being angry at Anders and Leliana. _He got my father killed, and she made a bard’s promise that I stupidly believed, which probably got my sister killed,_ she thought frequently as she brooded on her grudges.

In more rational moments, she knew she was being unfair. Neither of her lovers had been deceitful or false. They had both been sweet and honest, and she knew it when she was able to think about it fairly. Anders had meant to come back, and Leliana would never have told her a lie knowing that it would have resulted in the entire family being put in mortal peril. But when her mother and Carver gave her those _looks—_ looks of disappointment faintly tinged with resentment—she knew that they still blamed her for Bethany’s death, at least, and it was too much for her to shoulder all the blame for that alone. She had loved her little sister dearly. Ever since Father had died, they had become very close, as the two remaining mages—if Mal was one, he was far too young to manifest magic yet—and as sisters who shared a bedroom. Bethany’s support during Caitlyn’s pregnancy had also meant a lot to her... and now she was gone, and Caitlyn could not help but think that Mother and Carver were right that she was partly responsible. It was unbearable, and she _had_ to find a way of handling it. Even if she could not argue with them, because they never vocally brought the subject up, for her own sanity she _had_ to push some of the fault onto others— _and if those others aren’t actually here, what harm does it do?_ she reassured herself. _No one gets hurt if they don’t hear me saying it, and it helps me to cope._

It hurt not to have Bethany’s ashes. Caitlyn had not expected that it would hurt so much, but it did. They had Father’s, and even though she knew that it was just the ashes of his body and that he was not actually there, the fact that they were with the Hawkes, the small urn resting on Gamlen’s hearth, made them feel a little closer to him. The urn was a focus for her memories about her father, and a reassurance that they had laid his body to rest and said a final, respectful, loving goodbye—but they had no such focus for Bethany. Caitlyn also knew that it didn’t _really_ matter what became of an empty body, but it still felt wrong to have just left it behind for the darkspawn and Blighted animals. She tried not to think about what must have happened to it after they had left.

She also regretted leaving behind the ring and hairpin. Rather than helping her to move on, being without these items had flooded her with guilt, because she knew that she _had_ indeed left them behind out of spite. She’d convinced herself that she had not, but she knew now that she had. But, as was often the case with an act of spite, she had hurt herself instead.

Mal was, of course, a living reminder of Anders, and with every day that passed by, Caitlyn found herself seeing more of a physical resemblance between them. His hair was strawberry blond, a mix of both of theirs, and his eyes were hazel, also a mix... but they were clearly shaped like Anders’, as was his mouth. He had her nose, but he was more his father’s son with every passing day. But as he grew over the course of that year, stopped requiring nappies, and his speech ironed out to perfect diction, she found that she was thinking of him as a person in his own right, not a memory of his father.

Well... she would have to move on, she thought. She wished she still had the two objects that _were_ just reminders of Anders, but like her poor sister’s body, they were gone, gone—like Lothering, like their old lives, like their old dreams.

* * *

_Dragon 9:31._

Caitlyn was relieved that, at last, the indenture to Athenril was over. It had been a nightmarish year of degrading work. Athenril’s customers and business associates were mostly unsavory, whether Lowtown dock rats or entitled Hightown swine, and Caitlyn had had to endure frequent catcalls and come-ons. Some of them also had nasty comments to make about the fact that she was Fereldan, insinuating that “dog women” should be pleased to have “attentions” from anyone. It was infuriating. Even if she had not sworn off all such things, Caitlyn certainly would not have been interested in the kinds of boorish brontos who were Athenril’s business partners. But, she supposed, attracting her wasn’t the point of the behavior; it was to humiliate her.

At least Athenril, as a fellow woman who had dealt with this all her life—and worse, as an elf—had given her permission to use magic if any customers or business associates actually threatened her. Towards the last, when a stupid beady-eyed slug of a “man” with a bad yellowish dye job, a younger ale-swilling Hightown toff, and two sycophantic henchmen tried to take it farther than catcalling, she had finally done just that. They had not been prepared for a woman who could defend herself, let alone a powerful mage. A Walking Bomb had taken care of the whole lot of them. She had not actually reported that to Athenril, but had made it look like the work of a gang. There were plenty of _those_ in town.

Some of her anger had subsided into depression and sadness. She was certainly no longer angry at Leliana. She wished the former bard had come with her family, because she would always wonder if another defender would have made the difference for Bethany, but after she learned more about what had happened in the Blight, she had understood why Leliana had felt that her duty was to help the Wardens defend Ferelden. There were whispers that there had been a problem of some sort at the Circle of Magi, though no one seemed to have any details. Leliana probably had tried to contact her after they had left Lothering, but it was too late by then.

Leliana _was_ with Warden Cousland, now the Hero of Ferelden—but Caitlyn found that she did not begrudge her former lover that happiness. Caitlyn recalled the brief time that she had seen Elissa Cousland. It was true, she thought, that Cousland was an appealing figure. Caitlyn herself had found her attractive. There was an air of romanticism and even glamour to the dual-wielding rogue, between the confidence and artistry she displayed while handling her daggers, her resolute but slightly playful smile, and her mildly disheveled braid— _like I used to have,_ Caitlyn thought, remembering when her hair had been long. She now wore it at her shoulders, but she wondered if she would ever grow it out to her waist again. She supposed she wasn’t overly surprised that Leliana, the romantic bard, was with such a person as Cousland, and she wished them well. _She’s far more suited to Leliana than I was, a sad, moody apostate mage with a fatherless child and a cutting word on my tongue half the time._

She wanted to stay angry at Anders, but that was becoming harder too. She wanted to keep blaming him for the loss of Bethany, but she knew that it was unfair, and at some point over the year, she had been unable to keep it up. Others bore more blame for that: the darkspawn, the Archdemon for summoning them, Flemeth for sitting by and not rescuing them until Bethany had died, and, yes, herself for insisting that the family wait for a letter that never came. Anders might have been able to save her if he had been present, and so might her father, but the causality was too attenuated for her to be able to _fault_ Anders for Bethany’s loss. It was more accurate to say that his appearance in Lothering four years ago, his relationship with her, had set in motion a bad chain of events, but there were too many links for her to justly say that everything bad that had happened was his fault. Most bad things, minus the Blight, _had_ seemed to have started with him, though.

With her disappointment in her uncle, her poor circumstances, and with so many Kirkwallers spouting venom about Fereldans and expressing open contempt for mages—not knowing that she was one—she found herself missing the idyllic life she had lived in Lothering before everything had gone so wrong. Although she pinned Anders’ appearance as the beginning of the end, her relationship itself was still a sweet memory—and whenever she looked at Mal, she couldn’t regret it. That too clouded her anger at him.

She still resented him for not keeping his promise, and although she could not blame him in any way for Bethany’s death, to a certain extent, she _could_ place a degree of blame on his shoulders for her father’s. And yet... when they _had_ been together, he seemed... well, almost perfect now in her memories. She knew, rationally, that it hadn’t been so. He had been strident and sometimes too eager to pick a fight with Carver, but he had also been sweet and respectful of her. She was afraid to love again, or even let anybody touch her, but she was also aware that between Anders and Leliana, she had developed high standards for respectful behavior that no one she had encountered in Kirkwall had even come close to meeting. _Ah well,_ she thought while reflecting on that, _my first duty is to my family anyway. I have a child to raise, and I need to find some way of getting back the Amell manor for Mother so that we can get out of Uncle Gamlen’s hovel._ Those were her priorities now.

She wondered what had actually happened at the Fereldan Circle of Magi during the Blight. She had considered trying to contact the Warden-Commander for information about Anders, but she had had no status in Kirkwall, being indentured, and it would have had to go through Athenril. It had seemed very unlikely that a letter from a small-scale Kirkwall smuggler would make it to the Hero of Ferelden’s desk. That dark uncertainty had helped to do away with some of her anger at him. If he had suffered, or—Maker forbid—died in some kind of disaster, she couldn’t be angry at him. She supposed that she _now_ had authority to write on her own behalf, and perhaps she would do so... once she worked up the courage. A part of her almost didn’t want to know, for fear that the answer would be that he had made it and wished to stay where he was. That would ruin and defile her happy memories. Maybe it was best for him to live on as just a memory now.

* * *

Caitlyn had just trudged unhappily away from the dwarf Bartrand Tethras after a humiliating rejection of what she was sure was her best chance to earn enough gold to recover the Amell mansion, when she felt a body slam against her side and heard the sudden pounding of boots on pavement. She reached inside her pocket and realized, with horror, that she was missing her coin purse.

 _“You!”_ she roared at the escaping thief—but it was too late. He had far too much of a lead on her. _All I need right now is to lose what little coin I have,_ she thought wretchedly as she started to take off after him in spite of that. She had to at least try. Maybe she could catch him without using a spell. It was exceedingly risky to use magic in broad daylight... Meredith Stannard, the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall and the most mage-hating Templar she had ever heard of, had just passed by with a glower, as if she suspected that Caitlyn was a mage and only lacked proof of it....

A sudden snap, a thud, and a cry of pain pierced the air. As she and Carver rounded a corner, she saw the thief, pinned to a wall by a... not an arrow, she thought, but a crossbow bolt. _Or is that a crossbow?_ Caitlyn examined the bizarre weapon that the dwarf who had shot the pickpocket was carrying. It was too big and boxy to be a crossbow. Some ingenious mechanical dwarven invention, then. She had heard of dwarven machinery and engineering before, and the stories had impressed her.

And— _whoa whoa!_ She tried not to notice, but this was the handsomest dwarf she had ever seen. He had only a stubble beard, none of the vast clouds of unnecessary facial hair that most male dwarves sported, and his entire air was that of a person who had seen it all and then some. The swagger with which he carried himself reminded her a bit of Anders when he was in an upbeat mood.

“I knew a guy once who could take every coin out of your pockets just by smiling at you,” he growled, approaching the thief menacingly. “But you? You don’t have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchant’s Guild.”

The thief wordlessly returned Caitlyn’s coin purse to the dwarf. Momentarily she wondered if he would give it back to her now....

“Might want to find yourself a new line of work,” the dwarf hissed, landing a punch directly to the thief’s face and ripping the arrow viciously from his shoulder.

He turned around and approached her and Carver. Before he reached them, he tossed the bag of coins back to her, which she caught nimbly. _A good deed? From someone in Kirkwall? I wonder what the price will be,_ she thought cynically.

“How do you do?” the dwarf greeted them, menace and malice entirely absent from his voice now. It was almost as if he were a different person. “Varric Tethras at your service.”

 _Tethras! Then he is related to Bartrand,_ she thought immediately.

“I apologize for Bartrand,” he continued. _Ah ha!_ she thought. “He wouldn’t know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw.”

 _I will consider you an expert in that particular subject,_ she thought, recalling the sucker punch that he had inflicted on the thief. Suddenly, this day was looking much better.

* * *

Varric, it turned out, had _not_ recovered her purse out of pure altruism, but his price was one that Caitlyn was more than willing to pay, because it was the very “price” that she had just then attempted to “pay” to Varric’s brother Bartrand—to go along with him and his people in the Deep Roads expedition that he had planned. Varric had heard of her through some of his connections to the Kirkwall underground elements. Apparently, she was known among smugglers as a tough customer, one who did not tolerate backtalk and demeaning conduct from anybody—and even rarer was her _specific_ skill set. A powerful mage, it seemed, would be useful indeed in the Deep Roads.

 _And if I can get enough money from this to buy back the Amell manor, perhaps Mal and I will be protected politically from the Templars,_ she thought. _More than that—I can work against them as a noble. Even if he is not a mage—though he probably is, with two mage parents—they could still take him away as the child of a mage. They claim that right. And they would send him away from me. I wouldn’t even get to raise him, to be his mother, in the Circle. I’d probably never see him again, nor would the rest of my family. It cannot happen. This family has been diminished and shattered enough by those bastards. I have to get into this expedition and get this coin._

It would not be quite that simple, of course. She needed to come up with enough coin to buy her way in, and Bartrand, according to Varric, didn’t actually know what he was doing. He would be bumbling into the Deep Roads with no maps, which struck Caitlyn as a profoundly stupid thing to do even for a dwarf with “Stone sense.” But as she had learned later that night after visiting Varric in the Hanged Man, a pub in Lowtown, there was a Fereldan Grey Warden recently arrived in Kirkwall who had maps of the Deep Roads. That was all that he knew, but the Fereldan shopkeeper Lirene would be able to tell her how to find this Grey Warden.

 _I wonder who it is,_ she thought. Obviously, not Warden Cousland herself, nor would it have been Warden Loghain. He, too, was far too well-known across Thedas for Kirkwallers to be speaking of him just as “a Fereldan Grey Warden.” It must have been someone recruited after the end of the Blight. She just hoped that it would be someone who was easy to deal with.

She and Carver went to the shop the following day, hoping that Varric’s information was accurate. It was: Lirene was deeply proud and pleased to help a fellow Fereldan customer. “I haven’t met him myself,” she said. “Don’t even know his name, just that he is a mage. His ship just came ashore from Amaranthine a couple of days ago, but word has it that he was sent here by the Hero of the Blight to help the refugees—to help _us!_ Those Fereldan-bashing port authorities must’ve hated it, especially a mage, but they couldn’t gainsay a sealed order from the Grey Wardens signed by Lady Cousland herself. Maker bless the Hero and Maker bless our Warden.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn said patiently, “indeed so. Everything I have heard about Warden Cousland shows that she is a kind, honorable woman, so of course she would want to help people from her country who were stuck here due to the Blight.”

“Have you ever seen the Hero in person?” Lirene inquired conversationally. “I haven’t spoken to anyone who has, but you never know.”

Caitlyn was losing her patience; she needed to know how to find this Grey Warden who had just arrived, but she would humor the woman’s hero worship for now, since, after all, she _could_ say something truthful that would impress Lirene at the same time. “I have, in fact,” she said. When Lirene’s face lit up, she continued, “I have also seen Ferelden’s new King before he was crowned. My family and I lived in Lothering, and the Wardens passed through just before we left. She had her famous blades on her back and was going through the town helping people. It’s what she does.”

“Well!” Lirene said, smiling. “Not many here in Kirkwall can say that they’ve seen her.”

“I suppose not,” she said briefly. “Now... about ‘our’ Warden, the one who has Deep Roads maps. You said he’s a mage? Where can I find this Warden, exactly?” She hoped that he wasn’t holed up in the Viscount’s Keep. As a guard, Aveline might be able to get her in, but it would be another hassle and probably another round of disrespect for being a Fereldan woman. Lady Cousland might be an altruistic person, but she _had_ been born a high noble, and she might have sent her Warden to the Keep without really thinking about it.

“He went where the need is greatest,” Lirene said. “He has a place set up in Darktown. Here, let me show you where to find it.”

As soon as Caitlyn and Carver had the marked map, they thanked Lirene—making sure to buy a couple of goods from her as a gesture of goodwill—and headed home.

* * *

_“Mamma!”_ exulted Mal as Caitlyn swung the door to her uncle’s house open. She set her staff in the corner and swept him up in her arms as Carver walked past her.

“You’re getting big,” she remarked, setting him down quickly.

He grinned back. “Did you and Uncle Carver have a good day?” he asked politely.

 _Three years old,_ she thought, smiling proudly at his perfect speech. “We did, actually,” she said. “Where is your grandmother? We need to tell her about what happened today.”

Leandra emerged from one of the back rooms. Her hair was now entirely silver despite the fact that she was only in her forties, a consequence of trauma, sorrow, and stress. “Welcome home,” she said. She turned from Caitlyn to Carver. “That dwarf you met came by today.”

“Varric Tethras?” she asked. “What did he want? I hope he didn’t try to intimidate you,” she added. “I thought he was trustworthy. If I was mistaken—”

“He only asked about you and Carver,” she assured her daughter. “I told him that you had gone to the Fereldan shop.” She smiled at her grandson. “He liked Mal.”

Mal beamed. “He did! And he looks like me a little,” he added.

Caitlyn considered that. She had not thought there was a _physical_ resemblance between Varric and Anders, but she supposed that in some ways, it was true, once she looked past the fact that one was human and one was a dwarf. Stubble beards, reddish-blond hair, light brown eyes. She smiled at her son sadly. “I guess he does! But you really resemble your father, Mal.” She sighed.

Mal’s smile melted away. As soon as he was old enough to understand, she had told him a little about Anders—his name, the fact that Mal was named for him as well as his grandfather Hawke, the fact that Anders had been a mage and a Healer and that they had met in a blizzard. That was all she could stand. Beyond the bare facts, anger and sadness still warred with each other too much for her to be comfortable giving her son a narrative of how and why his father had left and never come back. He was still too young anyway, she had reassured herself. Once he was old enough to understand about the Circle and phylacteries and the many horrible things that could happen to a mage in Templar custody, _then_ she would surely have moved on and come to peace with it. But he did know that his father was gone, and that fact alone made him sad. “Gone,” to three-year-old Mal, meant what had happened to Aunt Bethany.

“Caitlyn and I went to Lirene’s,” Carver spoke up, noticing his sister’s sudden unhappiness. “I think Cait got close to setting the woman aflame—”

“That’s not true,” she protested mildly. “I was just losing patience with her praise of Lady Cousland and awe at the fact that we had seen her. We had _business.”_

“And we got what we wanted,” Carver said. “Mother—we have a plan. Lady Cousland sent a Grey Warden to Kirkwall to help the Blight refugees, and this fellow has maps of the Deep Roads.”

“The Deep Roads?” Leandra exclaimed in dismay. “But you can’t mean you truly intend—”

“Mother, we cannot stay here,” Caitlyn said in hard tones. “This is Uncle Gamlen’s house, for one, and he doesn’t really have room for all of us. That’s going to be even more the case once Mal grows a bit more. And unless we get the political protection that will come of being ‘Hawkes of Hightown,’ the ability to live off investments rather than taking jobs from the shady elements of the city, it’s just a matter of time before Meredith Stannard sends some Templars to take me away.” She glanced at Mal, who was staring up at her with shocked eyes and looking very much indeed like his father right now—at least, as Caitlyn remembered him. She wondered, with a pang, how much Mal already understood about mages and Templars. The thought was upsetting to her; it seemed like a loss of innocence. _No,_ she promised herself. _I will not let you be orphaned. Even though you do have family here, I will not let you lose both of your parents._

Leandra wailed, “But that doesn’t mean you need to scrape about in the Deep Roads! It’s dangerous.”

“Mother, anything that provides a lot of coin is dangerous. This is the best chance we have. And after dinner, I think Carver and I might go into Darktown to have a talk with this Grey Warden.”

“Just be careful,” Leandra pleaded, resigned. “That’s a bad, bad place.”

“It’s where _we_ would be if not for our uncle,” Carver said sharply. Caitlyn glanced at her brother in surprise; he rarely talked that way to their mother, but then... he was increasingly losing his patience with her tendency to baby them, especially since the livelihood of their family—possibly even the very integrity of what remained of it—depended on their taking on dangers to help the family. And Carver, for all his attitude, had become extremely pro-Ferelden since coming to Kirkwall and did not take well to anything that could be seen as a slight of Fereldan refugees. After a year of hearing bigoted, spiteful comments from Kirkwallers about her country of origin, Caitlyn agreed.

* * *

Varric Tethras arrived at Gamlen’s house just in time to join Caitlyn and Carver as they set off in the twilight for the nearest entrance to Darktown. He grinned at little Mal, who waved goodbye and then plopped down on the floor in front of the mabari Baldwin to play fetch. Caitlyn was not concerned. Her dog had grown up with her son, and as a mabari, he was extremely intelligent and understood to be very gentle with the small human who was his mistress’s own pup. _In fact,_ she thought darkly, _Baldwin is the best guardian in the house for Mal right now. Mother means well but can barely wield a blade, and Uncle Gamlen...._ She sighed. He was in his cups again after dinner, shut up in his bedroom at Leandra’s insistence so that Mal would not be exposed to his drunkenness. _This cannot continue,_ she thought. _Nobody can stand it for much longer. We have to get out._

“You know what I like about the Undercity?” Varric remarked as the entered the filthy, dank abandoned mines. “Absolutely nothing.”

In spite of herself, Caitlyn managed a dark laugh. “Surely it must provide opportunities for... business ventures?”

“The Merchant’s Guild is fully aboveground, I assure you,” he said. “Literally and otherwise.”

“Why do I think that’s not entirely true?” she said, smiling. “You heard of _us,_ after all.”

Varric chuckled. “You’ll do well in Kirkwall, Hawke. Ah—I think we’ve found our place.”

The trio stopped in front of a dusty hole-in-the-wall where a crowd of refugees, including some who looked rather tough and menacing, were standing. One of them crossed his arms and glowered.

“Is this where we can find the Grey Warden sent by the Hero of Ferelden?” Caitlyn asked.

“What do you lot want with him? Never seen any of you in Darktown, which means you’re doing better than most of us. I’ll have you know, he has a right to be here.”

“That’s exactly what I have heard,” Caitlyn agreed, “and we’re not here to interfere with him in any way.”

“Yeah? You’d say that, wouldn’t you?”

Carver strode forward. “You fought at Ostagar, didn’t you?” he said. “So did I. We’re all Fereldans here. Whatever this Warden is doing, if it helps the refugees, we support it. We just need to talk to him.”

The big refugee considered Carver’s words before nodding and uncrossing his arms. “All right. But if you cause any trouble, you’ll answer to us.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” Caitlyn assured them as the refugee acting as a guard moved aside to let them push open the doors. Varric, Carver, and Caitlyn walked into the room, where a mage was casting a blue glowing spell, his back turned and his head bent over a refugee who was laid out on a bed.

* * *

“Oh, _shit.”_

Carver, who had been at the head of the group, tried to shove his sister back out the doors, a look of stark panic in his face as he uttered the swear, but it was too late. The mage Warden had risen upright and turned around to face them. His eyes popped in recognition.

Anders staggered backward, both hands clapped over his mouth, his eyes wide in shock and disbelief. He bumped against the rickety wall of his clinic, continuing to stare as his hands slowly fell away from his mouth. “Oh, Maker, it can’t be,” he breathed. He blinked, as if still not believing his own eyes.

Across the small space of the clinic, mere feet away, Caitlyn had no such doubt. He was a few years older, as they all were, and he wore his hair differently, but there was no question of who it was. He even wore a similar kind of coat, though this one was more raffish than the one he’d had in Lothering. And as her quick mind put the available facts together— _Grey Warden, Hero of Ferelden’s orders, free of the Circle, sent to Kirkwall—_ all the swirling emotions in her mind coalesced in a fraction of a second to one: rage. Utter, incoherent, blinding fury.

 _“You!”_ she roared. A searing fireball formed in her palm, and without thinking about the fact that the entire room was full of wood and straw—and sick people—she hurled it directly at his head.

Anders reacted instantly, casting an arcane shield that absorbed the fireball harmlessly. In the next moment, he grabbed his staff and blasted her with an invisible spell that nonetheless affected her profoundly. The second fireball she was readying vanished before it could fully form.

She realized what had happened at once and stared back at him, upset and shocked now in addition to being furious. “You dispelled my magic,” she exclaimed, hardly believing it. “You—how dare you—Carver, get him—”

Carver was staring in shock at the proceedings, and beside him, Varric was looking on in confusion. “Are we _assassinating_ the Warden?” he asked Carver in a low voice. “Seems stupid....”

Carver shook his head at the dwarf. “There’s history. He’s....”

“Oh... the kid.” Varric whistled. “Yeah, I see the resemblance now. Didn’t expect that.”

Carver spoke to his sister. “Caitlyn, no.”

She whirled around. “You side with _him_ now? _Now?_ Fine, then.” Turning back to Anders, rage seeping from every line of her face, she snarled, “How _dare_ you take away my magic! You had that coming, you two-faced absconding bastard!”

“Caitlyn,” Carver muttered, “these walls are _wood._ You’ll burn it down around us. And if you hurt him, those refugees outside the door are going to kill every one of us.”

“Cait,” Anders pleaded, “let me explain, _please.”_

 _“Explain?”_ she screamed, the plea only serving to enrage her further. “Explain what happened to my _father!_ Explain why you never came back to me after _three years, knowing_ that we were going to have a child! Explain why, after you _did_ get out, you joined the bloody _Wardens_ instead of coming back to us! We had a Blight, and you _knew_ it was coming! Maker, you were bloody _attacked_ by Blighted creatures the first night we ever met! You abandoned us to that after _promising_ me!” She felt tears come to her eyes. “My sister is _dead_ now, I’ll have you know—my sweet little sister, dead, because you weren’t there to heal her and my father wasn’t there to help!” To her dismay, humiliation, and additional fury, her voice broke at the last. She turned aside, ashamed for him to see her cry.

Anders had listened to the entire torrent of furious anguish with rapidly growing pain in his eyes and every line of his face, taking it without argument or further interruption. When at last she was spent, he finally spoke. “I can explain what happened—and I know about Bethany.”

“Oh, do you?” she sneered, wiping her eyes and nose as she faced him again. _“How_ do you know? And if you do, why in the Void didn’t you show up until just now? I heard that you only arrived in Kirkwall a few days ago.”

“I promise you—”

“You promise,” she mocked. “Your promises are as worthless as that pile of rotten straw.”

He glared back, provoked at last to a surge of anger himself. A brief crackle of bluish-white light flickered beneath his skin. “Are you going to let me talk?”

“I don’t owe you a bloody damned thing,” she snarled. “How dare you.” She felt her mana level rise again and readied a new spell, this one frost.

He noticed at once and immediately dispelled it again. She sputtered in outrage and returned to yelling at him to dissipate some of the anger she felt. “Do you have any idea what I’ve _been_ through because of you?” she shouted. “My father—my sister—and the things these people say about me because I’m a single Fereldan mother, Anders!”

“Then he... survived?” Anders’ face lit up with hope. “He’s here?”

“Yes, he’s here, no thanks to _you,”_ she snapped.

Carver finally interceded. “Anders,” he said, “believe it or not, we’re actually here on business. This is Varric Tethras—”

“Sorry to intrude on the, er, family reunion,” Varric said wryly.

“Is he....” Anders glanced quickly at Caitlyn, then back to Carver.

She understood at once what he was asking and deeply resented the unspoken question. “No, he’s _not,_ but if you _think_ you can get back into my good graces just like this—”

“I just want the chance to say what really happened,” Anders pleaded. “That’s all. I know you’ve suffered. I was there when your father died... and I _did_ return to Lothering once I escaped for the last time, but you were just gone. That’s how I know what happened to your sister,” he said grimly.

Something occurred to her then. “Wait... that means....”

He nodded. “I saw her... body.”

“Why don’t you come to our house... well, our uncle Gamlen’s house... in Lowtown tonight?” Carver suggested, relieved that his sister was no longer screaming at him or trying to set him on fire. “Mother, Uncle, and... Mal... are there. You can tell all of us what happened.”

“Mal?”

“Malcolm,” Caitlyn said tightly. “That’s what I named him.” She glowered across the clinic at Anders. “Carver had to find Father’s body and carry it back,” she said pointedly. “At _sixteen._ He had to carry his own father’s dead body back home.”

“I’m sorry for everything you went through,” Anders said, meaning it. His eyes were wide and his hands were open in supplication. “I never wanted you to suffer—any of you. Please, believe that, at least.” _I’ve suffered too,_ he thought—but he did not dare say it yet. That would have to wait.

The energy was suddenly let out of Caitlyn. This whole meeting was too much, entirely too much. A sob wracked her at his plea, and she shook where she stood. “We came because we heard that there was a Grey Warden here who had maps of the Deep Roads,” she said, her voice sounding hollow now. “Varric’s brother is leading an expedition and Carver and I are hopefully going to go along in exchange for a share of the treasure. We’re living with our uncle in Lowtown because he gambled away the family estate, and we think that we can get enough coin from this to buy it back. We just need these maps so we’ll be able to navigate.”

 _You owe them this,_ Justice whispered in Anders’ thoughts. “I did become a Warden, and I do have maps of the Deep Roads,” he said slowly. “Of course I’ll lend them to you.”

 _I need to help Karl too,_ he thought, _but...._ Suddenly, all thoughts of restarting his relationship with Karl had fled. When he had left Ferelden, after the disaster of the murder of Warden Rolan, he had at last been convinced that all the Hawkes were either dead or worse, and that if he could get Karl out of the Kirkwall Circle, he _should_ attempt to start over with him if they could. But this changed everything. He would get Karl out of the Circle, but his first loyalty was to the woman standing before him now. The fact that she was alive, healthy, and not the horrific _thing_ he had concocted in his imagination after seeing the Mother made him happy beyond description. When Carver had named the people living at Gamlen Amell’s house, he had not mentioned anyone else whose name Anders had not recognized, and since the dwarf was not her lover, it seemed that she was still free. _If only...._ He pushed the thought aside. She was alive, and their son was alive. He had hope again, and for now, that was enough. The rest would come if it was meant to be.

“Carver... is right that you should come back to Lowtown tonight,” she said, unable to look at him now, her gaze cast toward the floor. “Whatever you have to say, you should say it to all of us.”

“I have one more patient to treat,” he said gently, “but I’ll go with you after that.”

They watched as he returned to his healing work. In spite of herself, Caitlyn felt her heart throb at the sight of Anders casting healing spells on the sick refugee, an elderly woman. The patient awakened from the sleep he had put her under—fortunately, neither of the patients had actually witnessed this scene, due to his use of sleep spells to make it easier to heal them—and with a compassionate smile on his face, he walked her and the other patient, a man with a missing arm— _an Ostagar veteran?_ she wondered—to the exit. He closed the doors and turned back around.

“I... need to get some things,” he said, giving her a curious look. “I’ll be ready in a moment.” He pulled back a strip of cladding that looked identical to the rest, but apparently led to a secret sleeping area for him. He emerged momentarily, stuffing one small pouch into the pack slung over his back and holding a second, fatter leather pouch while looking very somber and almost reverent. She was about to ask him what it was when he stuffed it into his pack too. He picked up his staff.

Varric glanced from the two Hawkes to Anders and back again. “I’ll just return to my room at the Hanged Man,” he said. “Best of luck to all of you.”

* * *

After Varric’s departure into the Hanged Man, it was a silent walk for the other three of them in the darkness of night. Caitlyn was not even sure what to think. Her emotions were swirling tumultuously, a storm inside her. Anders had better have a _damn_ good account of himself, on one hand—and even then, she was not sure she could forgive him for not being there for her family. But at the same time, he was alive. He was here. Whatever disaster had befallen the Fereldan Circle, he had escaped it. He was a Grey Warden, free of the Circle forever now, as he had wanted—and he seemed happy to see her. It was possible, she allowed, that circumstances really had conspired against him for four years, if he was so happy to see her at last.

But if that were true, that meant that he had suffered as she had for four years—which meant that her own massive rage, cultivated and cooked to simmering perfection, was unjustifiable and undeserved. What then? How could she ever let go of that without feeling an equally massive wave of guilt for having nourished it for so long?

And Maker knew she was a different person now in some ways. She was darker and more cynical, less carefree, less... selfish, really. If she could get the Amell estate back and become a Kirkwall noble, she intended to use that power to improve the situation for mages. It was an ambition that she would not have dreamed of harboring without the suffering of the past four years. There were other differences too, and a surge of guilt suddenly filled her as she thought about Leliana. Maker, what would he _think_ of her for moving on to someone else, if he had been locked up in the Circle in agony at being torn from his lover and child? Especially since she had deliberately left behind his mother’s ring and the gift he had made for her with his own hands? _And why do I care what he thinks?_ her angry side asked.

As they approached the area of Lowtown in which Gamlen lived, Carver spoke. “We’re almost there,” he said. “I think I should go inside first and... let Mother know what to expect.” They reached the doorstep. “Here it is.”

Caitlyn nodded to him, and he went inside. Anders turned to her.

“I... before we go inside... is there a person, someone else, I should know about?” he asked in a low voice.

She understood what he was asking and shook her head. “There’s no one.” _Anymore,_ she added in her thoughts. She really, really did not want to have to tell him about Leliana. “You?”

He shook his head.

Carver emerged into the door frame. “She’s shocked, but she’s all right,” he said. “Uncle Gamlen is passed out drunk in his room. To the Void with him.” He glanced from his sister to Anders. “Mal... my nephew... is still awake. I suppose you’ll want to meet him.”

“You don’t say,” Anders replied.

Even in the darkness, Caitlyn could see Carver’s eyebrows rise on his head and a faint smirk form on Anders’ face. It was so achingly familiar and normal that it was almost possible to forget everything that had happened.

Almost.

She took a deep breath and walked into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for this sort-of cliffhanger, but I’m really trying not to write 9,000-word chapters every single time.


	12. No One Can Hurt You Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song inspiration for this chapter’s title is “Safe and Sound” from the soundtrack for the first _Hunger Games_ film. It’s actually a very fitting soundtrack because I see some pretty strong parallels between this Hawke and Katniss Everdeen (except that my Hawke, as we’ll see, is a _lot_ more interested in being a political leader and is not nearly as selfish or shortsighted as Katniss), and Anders has Peeta’s sweetness and Gale’s righteous vindictive fury in one.
> 
> A lot of the chapter involves discussion of events that have already happened. Normally I don’t like to explicitly write out a conversation about previous events, but here, I concluded that I couldn’t have the emotional impact I wanted without doing so.
> 
> This is a major, super important emotional chapter, and that being the case, I’m nervous about whether I have done everything that such a scene needs. _Please_ let me know how it goes over!

All the way from the clinic to the Amell-Hawke house, Anders had been thinking about what awaited him at the end. He was a little disappointed that Caitlyn was so silent, but he supposed that it was understandable. She must be experiencing quite an emotional conflict about seeing him again, he thought with a pang, since she had tried to set him ablaze upon discovering who her Warden contact was. That kind of wrath could not be spur-of-the-moment; she must have been angry for a long time. He recalled the contents of one of the two pouches he had stashed in his pack; it seemed that his first guess a year ago about why the ring and handmade hair clip had been in the abandoned cabin was correct after all. He was just glad she hadn’t sold the ring. He really hoped that his account of the past four years would help her put aside at least some of her fury with him.

As they approached the house, his thoughts shifted. He was going to meet his son for the first time. The boy would be three years old now. Anders felt sick for a moment about that; he had known, of course, that if his child had survived, he had missed the entirety of his babyhood—but it was somehow different to actually see the proof of that. _And with the Taint, he’s it,_ Anders thought in anguish and outrage. _I’ll never get to deliver my own child. I’ll never hold a child of mine as a baby, see his first steps, or hear his first words. This is what is done to mages in the south._ Caitlyn, of course, was a mage too, but she was lucky enough to have had two parents who would not turn in their own children, making them traceable for life. _At least she got to see these things,_ he thought—but he was still furious, and Justice was also furious, that _he_ had missed most of her pregnancy and his child’s earliest years.

But he _was_ going to see his child at last. As recently as an hour ago, he had assumed that would never happen because child and mother no longer lived—or, in her case, far worse. He was going to meet his little one. _Malcolm—Mal—is old enough to talk with me,_ he thought with a sudden rush of anxiety. _What does he know about me? Has she told him anything? Carver must have been the only man he’s known. Will there be a place for me, or is his uncle already his father figure?_ Anders dismissed that worry; the boy was _three._ There was plenty of time for them to forge a lasting bond, at least. _I wonder what he’s like. I wonder what he looks like. They most likely wouldn’t know if he is a mage, and I won’t care either way, but... I kind of hope he turns out to be. I think that would make it easier for us to bond._

His heart was pounding when Carver Hawke returned from the inside to tell them they could come in. He glanced quickly at Caitlyn; she too was visibly nervous. Well... he didn’t wish any more emotional difficulty on her, but somehow it made him feel better to know that she was also uneasy. That meant she was not indifferent to him or intending to dismiss him immediately. Despite her fireballs in the clinic, she was willing now to give him a chance.

They stepped inside, and he instantly scanned the dusty, dark little house. It was much smaller than their cabin in Lothering. Ah—there was Mistress Hawke, who was fully grey now. She was staring at him as if not quite believing her own eyes.  _At least she doesn’t look angry with me,_ he thought—though he wondered if that might change once he had to relate one particular detail of his story concerning her late husband. One door was closed, and he supposed that this must be the uncle’s room, where he was sleeping off his drink. It was a shame that they had to live with a drunk and a gambler... but if this Deep Roads expedition bore the fruit they hoped, that would not last indefinitely.

He gazed to one side, and his breath caught in his chest. A little boy with strawberry blond hair sat on the floor, rolling a ball in front of a mabari, who dutifully and gently retrieved it for the child. _There he is,_ Anders thought in awe. He suddenly felt blood rush to his head and leaned against the table for support as he stared ahead.

The child had not yet noticed the people who had just entered the house, entranced as he was with the dog. The mabari uttered a friendly, guttural woof as the boy patted him and scratched behind his ears. _He must be a dog person like his mother,_ Anders thought, surprised that he would have such a lighthearted thought.

There was a light touch on his arm. He glanced away from the little boy and faced Caitlyn. “I should go to Mal and talk to him alone,” she said quietly.

He nodded, unable to speak. Caitlyn glanced at him, Carver, and her mother, then set her staff down in the corner and stepped over to her child.

The little boy finally noticed that a person he didn’t know was in the house. He brought his right index finger to his mouth to suck on it, green eyes widening as he stared at Anders, unsure what to think. Caitlyn sat down on the floor in front of him.

“Who’s that, Mamma?”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling in a shuddery breath. “He’s your father, Mal.”

Mal dropped the hand that was at his mouth. His lips parted. “Really?” he whispered.

She nodded, forcing a smile on her face even as a knot formed in her chest. “Really. He lives in Kirkwall too now. He just arrived a few days ago, and we found him today.” When Mal continued to stare silently across the room at Anders, who clearly was desperate to come over, she leaned down. “Would you like to meet him? I think he would like to meet _you.”_

The child nodded immediately and emphatically, jumping to his feet. She turned around and gestured for Anders to come. Leaving his staff next to hers, hurriedly, he made his way into the common area and squatted on the floor.

“Wow,” he breathed, reaching out and almost touching the boy’s reddish-gold hair. “Both of ours....” _He doesn’t know me yet. Don’t be too familiar too soon,_ he thought. He drew back his hand, collected himself, and smiled at his son. “Hello. I’ve heard your name is Malcolm.”

The boy nodded. “People call me Mal.” His tone of voice was very matter-of-fact, and he was trying his utmost to sound mature and nonchalant. The effect of seeing his little son trying so hard to impress him made his heart thump.

“Of course. I’m Anders. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand for an almost ridiculously mismatched handshake, which made the boy giggle and relax, shedding the façade. Anders smiled sadly. “You’re named for your grandfather.”

Mal nodded. “Mamma told me so. Guess what? She told me I’m named for you too, and it’s true! My second name is the same as yours!”

“Is it?” He gave Caitlyn a surprised smile, then turned back to Mal. “I didn’t know that!”

Mal gazed at Anders. “Did you know my grandpa? They tell me stories about him.”

A strangled cry almost escaped from Anders at that innocent question. “Yes,” he said. “Before you were born, I knew him. He was a good man.”

Caitlyn stood up and backed away, watching with an increasingly painful mix of emotions.  _It shouldn’t have been like this. He should have held him as a newborn, the very first to do that, even before I did. I’m happy that this has happened against all odds, even if it’s late—but what will it mean for me now? What do I even want it to mean?_ Amid her warring feelings, sadness seemed to be the dominant emotion, though, and a lump was forming in her throat.

“May I _call_ you ‘Father’?” the child asked hesitantly.

He closed his eyes, trying not to cry. “If you want to,” he choked out. “I would like that. I haven’t had the chance to  _be_ a father to you, and I hope you and your mamma will let me.”

“Do you love us?”

“Yes,” he said at once, feelingly. “I do.”

“Then why did you go away?”

Caitlyn could not stifle the cry from escaping her throat. She hurried away, but she still heard what he said.

“Oh, darling,” he burst out in spite of his resolution not to be too familiar too soon, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t _want_ to. People _took_ me away and then kept me from you for so long.” His voice broke. “When I was free of those people, I went to your old house....” He trailed off.

“The house in Ferelden?”

Anders nodded. “I went there, but... you were gone. I thought... I didn’t know where to look for you then,” he corrected himself at once. He forced a smile on his face. “But here you were! Just exactly where I went.”

Mal sniffled and cuddled against Anders. “I’m glad you’re here. I love you too.”

Another sob wracked the mage as he embraced his son. Caitlyn finally forced herself to look back. His eyes were closed, and tears were streaming down his face. He was shaking faintly from the sobs, but Mal didn’t mind. She saw that the child’s eyelashes were also damp, and his face was red, as Anders cradled the small reddish-blond head next to his chest.

She felt tears finally fall from the inside corners of her own eyes. Wiping them, she walked through the room, opened the door, and stood outside in the threshold, leaning against the house.

_What are we going to do?_ she thought.  _The happy, blissful, quiet life we expected is lost forever. Our old lives were shattered and some of the pieces were lost. How can we ever put them back together in a way that feels whole? I’m different... and he must be different too. I’ve been angry and sad for so long... and I still don’t know that I shouldn’t be. His feelings about meeting Mal are real; that can’t be faked, and he claims that he was kept from us, but what has he been doing for the past four years? And even if he can forgive me for... certain things... how can I ever forgive myself?_

She stood outside until the inclination to cry disappeared. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the house.

It had already been very late when they returned from Darktown, and Mal had quickly fallen asleep. Anders had picked him up and sat down on a chair, holding his sleeping son with an awed, happy-yet-melancholy expression on his face. He was no longer crying either, but it was obvious that he had been. His pack was no longer on his back, but instead rested at his feet, open.

Carver and Leandra were also seated in the common room. She gave them quick nods and took a seat across from Anders, who opened his eyes at her approach.

He gently adjusted the sleeping child to a more comfortable position and took a deep breath. “I... guess I should start at the beginning,” he said in a quiet voice, his gaze cast to the floor. “I should warn you... you probably won’t like some details of this.”

Caitlyn was instantly on her guard. _So there are indeed things that will make us angry,_ she assumed at once. _Well... better to have it out._

When he had no response from any of the family, Anders sighed uneasily and continued. “Cait mentioned in my Darktown clinic that Carver had to bring home his father’s body.”

_“Mentioned,”_ she thought wryly.  _Diplomatic way of putting it._

“I don’t know what... he found,” he said delicately, “or what you believed... but, well, I’m probably the last person in Thedas who would ever defend Templars, but they didn’t kill him. The ones who captured me probably _would_ have,” he said with a glower, “but he was already gone.”

“He was laid on a pyre,” Carver said, “and I presumed that meant it had been something else, and that the Templars had captured you before you could burn him.”

Anders nodded, his face pained at the memory. “That’s exactly right. I regret that you had to see that, Carver—your own father.”

Carver sighed. “It was painful, but... I thought about it afterward, and I guess I’m glad that you  _didn’t_ get the chance to burn him. Since you didn’t get to come back, I mean. At least we were able to know it was him.”

Anders forced a bitter smile on his face. “Well, I don’t know if you were able to deduce any more, but... I’ll tell you. Before I was captured, a band of ghouls attacked us on the road.” He gazed out at the shocked, disturbed expressions on the faces of all three Hawkes, feeling bad for what he was telling them, but having no choice now but to see it through. “We both survived the attack itself. But... yes,” he said, as Caitlyn’s eyes widened, “he contracted the Blight sickness.”

Her hands found their way to her mouth as her quick mind finished this part of the story. He realized that she had figured it out, but he still had to say it himself, just to get it out. “He insisted that I... end it... before he became a ghoul himself. I didn’t want to,” he pleaded to all of them, but especially Leandra, who was horrified. “I thought about calling off the phylactery mission and going to Denerim to try to find the Grey Wardens... but he was very certain that he wouldn’t have made it that far.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” he said in a whisper. “I understand if you can’t forgive this, but please believe me that I didn’t want to give up. But I _was_ able to honor his last wish.” _One of his last wishes,_ he thought unhappily, recalling the other two promises Malcolm had asked him to make. _I do love her... I kept that one too... but I couldn’t protect the family._ “He died himself, fully in command of his mind,” he finally managed.

Leandra had tears in her eyes. She was seated closest to him, and at this, she got up from her seat to give him a brief hug. He could not return it, since he was still holding his child, but he managed a sad smile.

“And now you _are_ a Grey Warden,” Carver muttered.

Anders believed he knew what Carver was thinking. “Yes—too late.” He sighed again, then noticed the urn resting on Gamlen Amell’s hearth. His eyebrows rose in recognition, but he continued his story. “After that, I was captured and taken back to the Circle.” He decided to skip over the parts about Karl; he _would_ need to tell Caitlyn about that later, but it was not something for her mother and brother to know unless she chose to tell them. “I tried to come back. I escaped two more times, but they caught me. One time was after my Harrowing. I made it to the Bannorn before they found me. They locked me up in my room, in solitary confinement, for a year after that one.”

“Solitary confinement?” Leandra repeated, appalled. Her husband had told her many things about the Circle over the years, but this was one of the worst she had ever heard. Would that not increase a mage’s risk from demons?

Caitlyn was remembering Leliana’s accounts of Anders during this time that she’d had from the Mages’ Collective through the apostate Sketch. _After his Harrowing. This was when she could not explain why he was not assigned outside the Circle as a Healer. They had locked him up!_ She felt a pang at her own memories of this period. _I was so sure that he was there because he chose to be there—but no, that’s not actually true,_ she felt with a second, harder pang. _I_ wanted _to believe that. I tried to convince myself of that. And he really was suffering all along._ She lifted her gaze to him. _I’m sorry,_ she thought, hoping that he could see it in her eyes.

“It was a hard year,” Anders said, trying not to focus too much on that. Justice had helped him to muddle through it, but that was another detail that he didn’t want to tell the Hawkes, at least tonight. “I finally got out after the Blight had begun, though I didn’t know that at the time.” He rubbed his forehead unhappily; this was one of the more difficult parts to talk about.

Caitlyn finally realized that she had to say something. “You said in the clinic that you went to Lothering, but we had just left,” she said, trying to make her voice sound strong, though it was still uneven. There were too many terrible memories associated with their final days in Lothering: the breakup, Leliana’s astute analysis that she was still in love with Anders, her departure with the Grey Wardens, the letter from her about the Circle of Magi that never came, and then the escape itself—Bethany’s death in defense of little Mal. She kept her gaze raised to his; it was hard to look him in the eye, but she felt that she had to. She could not stand appearing weak. She was already starting to feel pangs of shame about her own long-festering anger with him.

He nodded, keeping his eyes on hers. “I did,” he said. His gaze broke with hers and darted to his open pack again, but only for a moment. He took a deep breath, but found himself unable to speak. He cuddled Mal, closed his eyes, and winced.

Caitlyn tried to help him. There was something important, she could tell, but it was also something that was hard for him to say. “You said you saw Bethany,” she said. Her voice was a whisper now.

He swallowed hard. “More than that,” he said, forcing himself to look at them. “I... carried her back home and gave her a pyre.”

Leandra let out a cry at this. Anders thought for a moment about whether to interrupt his story, but it was the right time for this. Carefully making sure he did not wake up little Mal, he leaned to the side and down, drawing a leather bag out of his pack.

“Oh, _Maker—”_ Caitlyn burst out. Her eyes were wide with shock and emotion. Carver, too, was gasping in astonishment.

Leandra got up from her seat again and leaned over him, hugging him as she sobbed. “My poor little girl,” she whispered, touching the drawstrings of the bag that held Bethany’s ashes. “I hated so, so much to leave her behind.” She wiped her nose. “We’re all here now.” Another sob escaped her throat as she picked up the bag and carried it to the hearth, setting it beside the urn. She shook from her sobs as she knelt next to it. The others were silent, no one wanting to break the moment.

At last she rose, wiped her eyes, and returned to her seat. Anders gazed unhappily at each of the Hawkes. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t there,” he said. “I wish I could have brought  _her_ back to you, rather than her ashes.” He felt his eyes grow hot again.

Caitlyn felt utterly horrible now, staring at the leather bag. _He gave her a pyre and kept her ashes for a year. He held onto her ashes in the hope that he would see us again and return her to us. I, however, held onto a grudge._ She was unable to even look at him now.

“I went to Denerim, West Hill, Highever, and Amaranthine to look for your names in passenger manifests,” he continued once he was able to speak. “I didn’t see them. I was actually wondering....”

“We left from Gwaren,” Carver said. “I know it was strange. The entire journey was strange.”

Anders sensed that there was a story here, but he still had an additional year to account for. “Highever and Amaranthine weren’t open to outsiders for a while,” he said, glad to have something strictly factual to discuss that wasn’t directly related to the Hawkes. “I stayed in West Hill until they were, and while there, I learned all the news about the Blight. One thing I learned... I don’t know if you heard this later or not... but something went wrong in the Circle after I escaped.”

“We did hear rumors here in Kirkwall,” Caitlyn ventured. She seemed to like the change of subject too, he noticed. “No one could tell us anything directly, though.”

“I’m sure the Circle authorities wanted to hush it up,” he agreed, with a return of his old glower at the unceasing wickedness of the Circle and the Templars. “The Warden-Commander wanted to move on and not relive the Blight, especially since a problem arose in Amaranthine so soon. I’ll tell you a bit about that,” he added as her eyebrows rose. “As for the Circle, I was told that a secret group of blood mages took it over, killing most of the mages.”

Leandra gasped. “How terrible!”

He clutched his sleeping child very close and glowered. “And _that_ is where they kept me against my will for three years,” he muttered. _“That_ is where they thought I had to be instead of with our child—with you,” he said to Caitlyn. “The Circle of Ferelden was almost destroyed.”

“And you would have been there, among them, if you hadn’t escaped,” Caitlyn said, eyes wide with horror.

He nodded. “The Templars captured me in Amaranthine after they discovered that I was still alive, but the Hero of Ferelden was there at the same time. She conscripted me into the Wardens.”

“What happened in Amaranthine?” Caitlyn asked.

“There were rogue groups of darkspawn,” he said. _“Intelligent_ darkspawn, who had leaders. It was very disturbing.”

“Intelligent?”

“Many of them could speak.”

The Hawkes looked disgusted. _“Speak?”_ Carver repeated, his face curdling.

“It was unsettling,” Anders said, not wanting to belabor this. It was another story for a different time. Only a few hours ago, he had believed—but no, he wouldn’t think of that. “But we—the new Wardens, the Commander, and Warden Loghain—managed to defeat them. I couldn’t continue my search for you while that was going on.” He decided not to tell them that he had assumed they were all lost. “Warden Cousland sent me here to help the Blight refugees... and here we are.”

 _That’s not all,_ the other person whispered in his mind. _You’re avoiding talking about me._

_I am not going to tell them that yet,_ Anders replied.  _It’s too much, too soon._ Justice seemed to accept that, at least.

The Hawkes were silent, each of them thinking about what he had said.

Carver had the least emotional attachment to any of this. For the half year that Anders had lived with them, they had not gotten along particularly well, but toward the last he had come to accept the apostate as a future official family member. When that had not come to pass, he had felt for his sister, and he supposed that for the sake of her and his nephew, he was glad Anders was alive and well, but he had not missed Anders in his own right. His previous difficulty with Anders prevented him from feeling the same degree of gratitude that Leandra did for Bethany’s ashes. He felt bad about this, but he was actually a bit annoyed that this man he did not particularly like had earned their mother’s affection by bringing  _his_ twin sister’s ashes to them. That task should have fallen to him—and he knew that it couldn’t have, that they’d had to survive, but he still felt a sense of inadequacy and failure. And finally, one more feeling gnawed at the back of Carver’s mind:  _Yet again, everything is all about my older sister and what happens in her life._ Caitlyn might be dead set on recovering the Amell estate, which was all very well, but this reunion tonight just reinforced to Carver that he had to find his own path  _wherever_ they lived.

Leandra was happy in a somber way that Anders had brought the ashes. He was right; it certainly was nothing like having her youngest child back, but this would help with their collective grief. Even if the Hawkes themselves had not been able to do justice for Bethany, Anders had, and he was almost family, in Leandra’s opinion. It was a relief to know that her daughter’s body had not been picked apart by Tainted animals, but had been given a respectful treatment only a few days after her death and her ashes kept for a year by a young man for whom Leandra harbored fondness. Leandra was surprised at what Anders had told them about poor Malcolm’s death, but it had been four years, and the grief was no longer raw. She certainly did not hold it against him, and in fact, was sorry that he’d had to do it. Aveline, after all, had had to end Ser Wesley’s suffering from the Blight sickness in the same way, and it had been brutal for her. And watching as Anders held little Mal so close, wanting so much to be a father when that had been denied to him for all of his child’s life, Leandra found her romantic heart—the same heart that had fallen in love with a Fereldan mage twenty-five years ago—hoping that he and Caitlyn could somehow make it work again.

Caitlyn’s feelings were the most turbulent. Mainly, her guilt was becoming much stronger now than her anger.  _I turned to somebody else while he was locked up in solitary confinement,_ she thought miserably.  _I left behind his mother’s ring and the gift he made for me, and he gathered my little sister’s ashes and kept them. I held onto a grudge while he was trying to get back to us. Leliana was right all along,_ she thought.  _I thought she was being naïve when she tried to tell me that he might have been locked up, but she was right—and I should have admitted it to myself. I knew Anders. I knew how much he hated the Circle. He wouldn’t have chosen to stay, especially knowing that we were out there. I made myself believe that because it temporarily made me feel better to be angry—and even worse, I acted on that anger._ She felt sick at that realization.  _He’s here—but I’ve forfeited the right to have anything with him ever again._ It hurt, because the narrative he had given tonight reminded her of why she had cared for him in the first place.

However, the old anger, her armor, was not defeated so easily.  _Wait a minute. He wasn’t telling us everything,_ she suddenly thought.  _I don’t know what he skipped, but he skipped something._ She clung to this intuition like a lifeline against drowning in her own guilt.

Mal squirmed, yawning, as he woke up. His first reaction upon waking up was surprise, then confusion—and Caitlyn and Anders could see the exact moment that he remembered who was holding him. A smile formed on his face as he closed his eyes and tried to return to sleep.

“Lucky,” Caitlyn said quietly, referring to his smile. As much as he had already suffered in his short life, as many shocks as he’d had, he was still young enough that they would not hurt him as much as they hurt his elders, especially since he had both of his parents at last.

Anders chuckled sadly. The little boy squirmed again, though, and Anders realized that his arms had become somewhat numb. Caitlyn rose from her seat to pick him up. “It’s well past bedtime for him,” she said. “I generally don’t let him sit up this late....” She wondered, momentarily, why she had said that. She didn’t need to justify her parenting to Anders. He had not even _been_ here.

A clap of thunder sounded, startling everyone. In the next second, the telltale sound of a deluge began. Anders closed his eyes. He did not look forward to walking back to the clinic in the rain, even if some of that walk would be underground. Come to think of it, some of the Darktown thugs and gangs might target him if word got out that he was a Grey Warden. Wardens were paid, and paid well—and Lady Cousland had promised to continue sending him his stipend as long as he sent reports to her about the refugees and any darkspawn-related activity he happened to see. The Darktown criminal element might have learned that he had coin. _But..._ he was a mage, and he could defend himself.

Caitlyn emerged from the room that she shared with her mother and her son, whom she had just laid down on a mattress. She sat in her chair again, sighing and looking at the floor unhappily.

“I should go,” Anders said, rising.

“What?” Leandra exclaimed. “It’s pouring! What are you thinking? Of course you must stay with us.”

Caitlyn recalled that he had no patients remaining overnight. Unless he took people who came in the middle of the night, he had no urgent need to return, and she felt that she owed him this tiny little thing, at least. “She’s right,” she croaked. “Unless you accept patients at your clinic at any hour.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t turn people away, but officially, it’s not open.” He forced a smile on his face. “Thank you.” He turned to Caitlyn. “Could you and I talk alone?”

Leandra instantly rose from her seat and hurried away. Carver scowled as he retreated to his loft. Caitlyn took a deep breath. _Here it is, then._ As her mother and brother dispersed, she steeled herself for the conversation.

They moved to a quiet, remote corner in the house near the front entrance. Their conversation would be muffled by the rainfall.

“Cait,” he said quietly, “I need to tell you some things.”

“Hmph. I _thought_ you hadn’t quite said everything.” The tough remark felt good to say for a moment, but immediately afterward, not so much. _Why do I keep trying to hurt him?_ she thought. _I’m only hurting myself._

Still, he did not seem to take offense. Perhaps her guess was right. “Things... happened to me,” he said brokenly. “I’m not the same person I used to be.” He stopped, momentarily unable to continue.

She sighed. “Neither am I. I’m not satisfied with a simple life now, nor even with wealth for its own sake. The past four years—for both of us—have made me determined to get back my mother’s estate so that I can have some _power_ here to change things for people like us. To make it so that we don’t have to live in terror of being separated, taken away from our families and our children, of being torn from the Fade and stripped of feeling and magic because somebody is afraid of us. Maybe others can live that simple life if I succeed... but not me. Not now.”

He looked proud and resolute for a moment. “I feel exactly the same,” he said quietly. _More than you know,_ he added in thought. For a moment, he meant to tell her about Justice tonight after all.

“But aside from that... I lost my father. I lost my little sister. We don’t have a home of our own anymore; this is Uncle Gamlen’s. I’ve had to raise Mal... and... there’s something else.” _Why am I telling him this?_ she thought in a panic. _Because I have to,_ she answered herself at once. “Anders... in Lothering... there was a person, a woman....”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You and her?” Instantly he thought he had a guess, as she nodded, wincing. _Could it be?_ “Was it Warden Cousland’s partner? The one who’s _now_ her partner, of course,” he added.

She gaped. “You _knew_ that?”

“No,” he said at once, “but I was aware that she had met your family. The Warden-Commander said that she had asked about me at the Circle and that it was on behalf of someone else. I thought it had to be your family, since no one else in Lothering knew me.”

Caitlyn’s eyes fluttered shut. “Oh, Maker, she really did ask,” she whispered. “She kept her promise.” She had accepted a while back that Leliana probably had done so, and that the disaster at the Circle and the destruction of Lothering had prevented her from contacting the Hawkes, but it was still painful to have it confirmed. Her anger at Leliana, her belief that it had been a bard’s false promise to get Caitlyn out of her hair so she could run off with the Grey Wardens, was also undeserved. “At the end of it, she promised me that she would. Anders, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I was lonely, and there was never anyone else, _ever,_ not even once.” _Why did I need to reassure him of that?_ she asked herself. “I should have—”

His thoughts were tumultuous. On one hand, this made him feel marginally better about his own relationship with Karl, a source of guilt to him for a long time until he had believed the Hawkes dead or lost to the darkspawn. She had surrendered to loneliness too. However, what did it say that both of them had turned to somebody else in their loneliness?  _Did_ it mean anything? Anders was utterly certain that he would not have done it if they had been allowed to stay together, but both of them nonetheless had fallen into hopelessness and done so.... “Hey. I understand, better than you think. Cait... I did too.”

“What?” she whispered, daring at last to raise her gaze to his.

“When I was stuck in the Circle... there was a friend I’d had for a while, a male friend, the only person in the whole Circle who cared anything about me....”

“Oh,” she finished. For some reason, she was glad it was not another woman. _I can never be a man, so I can’t compare myself to one. I could compare myself to another woman, though, and if he preferred another woman to me, it might be because he saw her as superior to me, not different._ This dark trail of thought led to a startling conclusion that she instantly rejected. _I’m not jealous,_ she thought insistently. _I’m not. I actually feel a bit less guilty about my own relationship, knowing that he had one too. I’m not jealous of that man._

“We were Harrowed around the same time. It was.... He was also the only one since you. I was lonely too. He is in the Circle here in Kirkwall now, and I’m hoping to get him out of that place.”

She thought she understood what he was hinting at. The thought was not a relief to her; the idea of jealousy reared its head again. “And you want to start again with him after you do?”

“I was thinking I might try... until tonight,” he said. “I believed you were all dead—well, actually worse than that. I can’t even tell you what I thought had happened to you. Trust me,” he said as she opened her mouth to ask, “you really don’t want to know. I saw something terrible in the Deep Roads under Amaranthine, and... I’ll leave it at that. It’s not true, and that’s what matters. We—this man and I—broke up after he realized that... well....”

_That you still cared about me,_ she thought. “You went to Lothering after you got out,” she said quietly, making the point for him without saying the words. “You searched all the northern ports.”

He nodded. “There’s... something else that happened to me.” A grimace formed on his face. Should he really divulge this? His resolution faded. It was too much. A better time would come.

Her eyebrows rose on her forehead. “What is it?”

“I... can’t tell you tonight,” he said, wincing. “It’s too much for one day. I won’t keep this from you forever, Caitlyn... but because of it, I’m truly not the same person I used to be.” _Please, try to understand,_ he willed her. _Try to see what I’m telling you. I think I had a lapse back in the clinic. Did you see? Do you understand what it meant?_

She scowled, and Anders felt unhappy and futile. She either had not noticed what had happened in the clinic, or she had not understood what it meant. If she didn’t understand—and he supposed he was not being very clear—then he would have to tell her later. He dreaded the prospect now.

He sighed, closing his eyes in resignation. “I understand that we can’t go back immediately to what we were four years ago. I just want to be part of my son’s life,” he pleaded. “That’s all I ask.”  _For now,_ he added in a secret promise. He opened his eyes again to gaze at her imploringly.

She nodded. “Of course,” she said. “That was what we wanted, wasn’t it? To have him, to raise him....” Despite the bitterness of the words, she glanced fondly at the room in which Mal slept, then, turning back, noticed that he was doing the same. Guilt tugged at her yet again. “Anders... I have another thing to confess.”  _And I’ll actually confess it, unlike you and your secret,_ the voice that was determined to be angry added in spite of her. She pushed that voice aside; her anger and spite were a shell against her own guilt and pain. “The hair clip... your mother’s ring... I’m so, so sorry—”

“I have them.”

She gaped at him, genuinely shocked this time. “What?”

“I went inside your house in Lothering,” he said. “I was looking for clues about where you might have gone—and if anyone had survived.”

“You got past my wards?”

He had not thought about that. “They weren’t in effect,” he said. “Maybe they failed when your family moved, when it wasn’t your home anymore. I found the ring and ornament inside and kept them along with your sister’s ashes.” He gazed into her eyes. “You said you regret leaving them behind. Do you want them back?” He was surprised at how cool his voice was suddenly, but now that he was among the Hawkes again, he found that he _was_ a little bit angry at her for leaving behind his family heirloom. He had been unable to feel that until he was sure that they had survived.

She put up her hands in refusal. “Anders! I left  _your mother’s ring_ behind out of spite. It’s one of two things you had from her, and I abandoned it to the darkspawn because I believed that... you weren’t.... The point is, I don’t  _deserve_ it.”

His first instinct was to be annoyed that she had rejected it twice, first when she left it in Lothering and now here. It was a rejection of him, was it not? But a wave of melancholy replaced that quickly. He had hoped to return it to her and ask the question that he had promised her he would ask once he was truly free of the Circle, but now, he realized that this was unrealistic. It had been four years, and he was still keeping a big secret from her. They had changed, and they needed to get to know each other again.  _She’s still herself,_ he thought,  _and so am I, but people change over the course of four years, and we didn’t change side-by-side all along._ “Very well,” he said, “but the hair clip was a gift for you. It never belonged to anyone else. Please take that one.” He reached into the small pack he kept on his belt and pulled out a small corner of the orange-dyed handkerchief she had given him four years ago after he had presented her with his own gift. “I still have this.”

She breathed in and out, closing her eyes and nodding. “All right. If you want me to have it... I’ll take it back. And I won’t discard it this time.”

He chuckled mirthlessly at that. “It’s in my pack. Both of them are.” He wanted to take her hand to walk with her across the room, but he did not. Instead they shuffled back to the dark corner where the pack rested in front of his chair. He fished in it until he found the second pouch that she had noticed him placing inside in his clinic. He opened it and shook out the ring and feathered hair clip. Her eyes widened even though she knew what to expect. She had truly never thought she would see them again. He passed the hair ornament to her and replaced the ring in the pouch.

She was holding it in her hand, running a finger along the feathers, when she noticed his yawn out the corner of one eye. She was relieved at the sight; it was a sign that she could change the subject to a practical concern rather than this difficult, fraught discussion. “Mother was right. The rain is still coming down, so you should stay here.”

He glanced at the hard floor in front of the hearth. It was an unpleasant prospect. “I could wait for it to stop....”

She noticed what the problem was and huffed, but she supposed it was understandable on his part. “No, there’s no need. Come on.” She reached for his arm—making sure _not_ to take his hand or even to take his arm in a tender way—and began to walk him back to the room that she, her mother, and Mal shared. “I have room on my pallet.” _It’s a good deed,_ she told herself. _I’m offering this to settle a bit of the debt between us. He did so much for us and suffered so much—and never harbored a grudge, to boot. This is to make it up to him just a bit, no other reason._

He stopped and stared at her. “You really don’t have to do that.”

She sighed. “Anders, you don’t want to sleep on the hard, cold floor, and I don’t blame you. You also don’t need to walk in the rain and mud, or be in the tunnels of Darktown alone at night. Don’t argue with me. I’m not _afraid_ of having you nearby, you know.”

“I didn’t say you were... but you’re not obligated....” He trailed off and stopped arguing as they crossed through the open door to the bedroom.

Leandra was asleep in a rather dingy little single bed. To the side of it where there was more space, two rag-stuffed pallets had been laid on the floor, one small one for Mal and a second one that was just big enough for two people. He felt a flicker of outrage on her behalf that their living conditions had been reduced to this... but he _was_ tired, and that _was_ a bed. _And this is why she came to my clinic,_ he thought as he took off his coat and boots. _She and her brother are going to seek out Deep Roads treasure to buy back their family estate. I have to help them with that._

She pulled off her own shoes and removed her belt and overdress, leaving a loose long-sleeved chemise. He tried not to stare. _And no touching,_ Justice reminded him.

She sat down on the rag mattress and lay down, pulling a blanket over herself. He hesitated for a moment before doing the same, less than a foot from her. _I’m going to let you take over in the Fade,_ he thought as he began to nod off. _You won’t let me do anything in my sleep or half-awake that I’d hate tomorrow... if she didn’t burn me to a crisp first._ The spirit seemed to agree; Anders sensed approval of his plan.

“I’m glad you are safe and sound,” she said quietly, not loud enough to wake either of the other occupants of the room, but still jarring in the silence. He thought it sounded as if she felt that she had to say it.

“I’m glad you are too,” he replied in a whisper. “And him. And the rest of your family.” He hesitated again. “We’ll figure out the future later.” _This is enough for now,_ he completed in thought.

She murmured almost inaudibly in agreement as they drifted off.


	13. Someone Else, Another Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is a lyric of “Another Stranger Me” by Blind Guardian.
> 
> I am not sure this chapter works, but as you will see, to a certain extent this one's effectiveness will be determined by how I handle the next chapter.
> 
>  **Warning:** Hawke acts like an absolute shitheel at the end of this chapter, and the circumstances under which she does are pretty awful. As I said in an early chapter, her anger is going to get her in trouble with people she cares about....

The first sounds Caitlyn heard as she emerged from the Fade were vaguely familiar voices around her.

“Look at them! It’s so precious,” murmured a female, maternal voice.

“Grandma, is my father going to be staying here?”

“I hope to the Maker not,” grumbled a male voice. “Another person to put up who could support himself?”

Caitlyn blinked awake. Mal, her mother, and her uncle were standing in the doorway to the shared bedroom. The adults were having a discussion, while the little boy was pleading with them. She realized that she was very warm and glanced to her side. Anders was still asleep, and he had rolled on his side so that his face was turned to hers. That would account for the warmth. She didn’t think they had actually been snuggling, because she had not had to extricate herself when she awakened, but they had been close. She felt vaguely relieved, but at the same time, also vaguely pained. Perhaps their... status... would be more easily determined if things just happened on their own, unconsciously. Perhaps if she  _ had  _ woken up nestled into him, she would have a better idea of what to think based on how she would have responded to that discovery.

_ It doesn’t work that way, _ she chastised herself.  _ Whatever we decide to do, we’ll have to make a deliberate choice, no shortcuts. _

“Good morning,” Leandra said, noticing at last that her daughter was awake.

Mal bounded over to her. “Can we wake up Father?” he whispered playfully, glancing at Anders with mischief in his eyes. He was hiding his hands behind his back.

In spite of her own uncertainty, Caitlyn smirked. The innocence of a child was just right at times. “Don’t hurt him,” she said, “but you can surprise him.”

The little boy grinned. He knelt on the floor next to Anders and brought his hands around to his front. She realized that they were dripping wet and that he must have been playing in the puddles of rainwater. Making a quick assessment that it was just water and not mud, she got off the pallet and watched in amusement as he placed his small hands on Anders’ face.

A startled shriek came from Anders as he woke up. Before his eyelids fluttered open, Caitlyn noticed something odd; a light blue crackle resembling the shape of lightning flashed across his cheek and neck before vanishing. What was that, a spell he cast subconsciously as he left the dream world? That happened on rare occasions; she had a scorch mark on her quilt—packed in a crate now, as it was not the cool season in Kirkwall and she did not need it—from an accidental tiny flame burst, about the size of a candle flicker, years ago. She had been a young girl then, though, still learning to control her magic. Nothing like this had happened with Anders four years ago on any of the occasions when they had spent the night in his little loft; he too had control of his magic as an adult. She would have to remember to ask him about it; perhaps the traumas he had suffered had caused this to happen. He blinked awake, gasping in surprise—and, to his credit, instantly realized what had just happened upon seeing the child’s face.

“You little scoundrel!” he exclaimed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he grabbed his son around the waist before the latter could flee. Mal squealed as Anders stood up, holding him all the while and swinging him around in his arms before bringing him into a quick hug. He set the child down with a smile and turned to the others in the room.

Caitlyn’s heart had thumped oddly at the sight of Anders playing with Mal. In that brief second, she longed for him to stay—to be here, to be a part of their family all the time, to be the father he obviously wanted to be, and also to....  _ No, _ she interrupted her own thoughts.  _ Too soon. And he still has something important to tell me. _

He pulled on his coat and fastened the belt around his waist. “I should go,” he said, his voice suddenly very sober. “Patients start to arrive at the clinic early.” A scowl formed on his face. “The way Fereldans are treated is a disgrace to this city. I would ask why the Chantry isn’t helping the Fereldan poor except I think I already know the answer.”

Uncle Gamlen, who had fortunately moved to the common area but still overheard, raised his eyebrows. “Good morning to you too,” he said pointedly as all three of them left the bedroom. “Now, let’s just get one thing straight.”

Instantly Caitlyn and Anders tensed. He was clearly not happy that his sister had let another person into his house while he was in a drunken sleep.

“Leandra told me who you are,” he continued, glaring through narrowed eyes at each of them. “For the little boy’s sake, I’ll allow you to visit here. But I am not going to tolerate any of what caused you two to get him in the first place. Not in my house. Understand?”

_ Get him? _ Caitlyn thought in disgust.  _ What a way to put it! I knew he was vulgar, but— _ “Oh, certainly,  _ uncle,” _ she seethed, cutting off Anders’ reply before he could speak a single syllable, “that’s  _ exactly  _ what I wanted to do in the same bedroom as my child and my  _ mother! _ Maker’s breath.”

Gamlen glowered back. “Personally I think you and the boy should go to his—what do you say it is? A clinic?—in Darktown.”

“Oh, Gamlen,” Leandra exclaimed, her face falling. She turned to them. “Don’t listen to him.”

“If he gets paid as a Grey Warden, he ought to be able to support them. They’re his family, especially the boy. He should take care of them.”

_ He actually has a point,  _ Anders thought, but as he noticed the hostile glower on Caitlyn’s face directed at her uncle, he realized that now was not a good time to discuss any version of that idea. This was obviously not a happy household, and he did not know what sorts of grudges and resentments had festered over the course of the year. In any case, it  _ would  _ be pretty presumptuous to expect them to move at once, especially since he had not seen Caitlyn in years, did not know exactly where they stood, and did not have a better home than this one to offer.  _ I should help with the coin, though, _ he thought.  _ My expenses as a Healer are quite low; I gather most of the herbs I use, and the Warden-Commander will ship lyrium as needed. I already have decent savings from the time in Amaranthine. _

“I have every intention of doing all that I can,” he finally said, “and I won’t impose on your... hospitality... any longer.” The pause was deliberate; Anders did not mean it as a slight of the physical accommodations, but rather, Gamlen’s extremely _in_ hospitable behavior. From the look on Gamlen’s face, the barb struck. Coolly he headed for the front door.

Leandra tried to stop him. “Anders, you don’t have to leave immediately!” she exclaimed. “Have breakfast, at least.”

“Thank you, but your brother is right,” he said gently. “I do have coin of my own and food stored at my clinic. I shouldn’t take from you.”

Mal’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to live with us?”

A pang of guilt hit him. He got on his knees and patted the small child on the head. “This is your great-uncle’s house. He thinks I should live in my own home, and he’s right. I live in Kirkwall. You can visit me any day, and I’m not going to leave you again.”

Caitlyn’s heart suddenly started to pound rapidly, not out of sentiment, but out of irrational fear.  _What is happening?_ she thought in panic and annoyance.  _He lives in Darktown, and he’s only going to work—to treat sick refugees. Sick Fereldans. He’s not going—_

Mal voiced her unspoken fear, making her heart thump harder. “The people who took you....”

“They can’t take me away now. I became a Grey Warden, and that means they’re not allowed.” Anders wished he were as confident as his words suggested that the Templars of Kirkwall, about whom he’d heard nothing good, would leave a Grey Warden mage be, but this child did not need to know about that.

“Grey Wardens are heroes,” Mal replied, awe in his young face.

Anders laughed sadly. “Some are. I just want to help the other people who came here from Ferelden.”

“Which is heroism in its way,” Leandra added encouragingly.

“I wish we could all live together,” Mal lamented.

_So do I,_ he thought. What to tell Mal, though? Caitlyn was right there, and he did not want to say anything that might sound presumptuous to her ears—but neither did he want to extinguish hopes, either Mal’s or, if he were honest, his own. Perhaps even though Mal was three and a half, he could still hear some version of the truth. He was intelligent and perceptive, after all; Anders had realized that after just one night. “Your mamma and I have not seen each other in a long time, since before you were born,” he said. “We need to do a lot of talking before we make any decisions like that. But I promise you this,” he said, locking his gaze with his son’s, “I want to see you. I want to spend time with you. And we’ll do that, no matter what.”

“I can come to your house?”

Anders smiled. “It’s not a house like this one; it’s a place where I heal sick people, but yes. If your mother allows it.”

“And I will,” Caitlyn murmured.

Leandra looked as if she wanted to continue to argue, but he actually did need to get to the clinic in case there were early visitors. He gathered up the rest of his belongings, picked up his staff from the corner next to the front door where he had laid it, and opened the door to the morning sky. The musty, earthy scent of fresh rainfall greeted him.

As he opened the door and stepped onto the doorstep, a strange thing happened to Caitlyn. Across the muddy street, a woman in red was sweeping out her home—but for a second, Caitlyn saw a Templar dressed in the distinctive burgundy of Kirkwall, holding a greatsword rather than a broom, and the panic that had been swelling in her took over. She hissed and yanked Anders back inside, slamming the door behind him. She faced him, eyes wide, heart thudding so hard that her pulse was actually visible across her upper abdomen, even through her clothing.

“What the—” Leandra began.

Caitlyn closed her eyes and leaned against the door, breathing heavily. That was Uncle Gamlen’s neighbor... wasn’t it? Or was it? She was so sure for a moment that she had seen one of Meredith Stannard’s people holding a huge sword, ready to cut them all down or take Anders away again. She kept her eyes shut, blocking out everyone, ready to hear the heavy knock on the door that she had dreaded all her life.

It did not come. Gingerly she opened her eyes again. Everyone there was staring at her in concern, but Anders alone had an additional expression apparent in his face. He seemed to understand what had just happened.

“Er,” she began, now feeling embarrassed as she realized the trick her own mind and eyes had played on her. “I... thought I saw a Templar for a moment.” She opened the door, steeling herself as she did. Even though she knew now that it _was_ just a Lowtown resident, the irrational panic and terror stirred again at the fear that perhaps she was wrong. Breathing heavily, she forced herself to look across the street—but the person had disappeared. Her heart thudded again. She no longer trusted her own perceptions; had there been a person at all? _Yes, and she went back inside,_ Caitlyn told herself, scolding her own mind for being irrational. _She went back into her house. That was not a Templar._

And yet, despite these determinedly rational thoughts, despite his own assurances that he was a Grey Warden serving the Hero of the Blight, she did not want to let him walk back to Darktown alone. The last time she had let Anders go off somewhere without her....

“Do you want to walk with me to the clinic?” he asked her. He glanced at Mal, who was staring at his mother in concern. “And what about you? Would you like to see me at work?”

“Is Mamma all right?” the child asked in a small, worried voice.

Anders nodded. “Your mamma and I both have some bad memories.”

“You heal sick people,” he said stubbornly. “Is Mamma sick?”

_Good question,_ Caitlyn thought. What had just happened? It was almost as if the Fade itself had intruded, except there were no signs of a rift or a weakness. Was she going mad?

“No,” Anders said firmly. “Definitely not. She just didn’t get a good look at somebody, and it made her remember something bad that had happened.”

“Let’s go to your clinic,” she said, picking up her staff. In a quiet voice that only he could hear, she added, “And if you _do_ need to look at me, _you’re_ the one who’ll have to explain that to him.”

* * *

A patient was already camped outside Anders’ door, a young woman who appeared to have been a soldier once, based on the sword she had, but was now, judging by her armor, working for the Coterie, the loosely organized guild of thieves. Caitlyn felt a surge of irritation at the thought that yet another highly qualified Fereldan was forced to work for organized crime because of Kirkwall prejudice when the legitimate City Guard needed all the help it could get. _Aveline was also a soldier, but I wonder if her Orlesian heritage is the real reason the City Guard hired her,_ she thought darkly. The patient was bruised and bloodied, explaining her presence outside Anders’ clinic.

As he tended to her wounds, Caitlyn noticed that Mal was fixated upon the healing magic. His eyes were wide with interest as Anders sealed up the woman’s injuries. _I hope you can do it someday, since you are so interested in it,_ she thought. _I don’t mind hoping for that now. Since Anders and I are both mages, I should accept that you will probably show magic someday too rather than living in denial about this, and I promise I’ll make it right for you if you do._

The Coterie woman got off the sickbed and grunted as she got to her feet. “That’s a lot better,” she said. “How much?”

“I’m being paid by the Grey Wardens to do this as a service to the Blight refugees,” he said.

“Then consider this a donation to the ‘Grey Wardens.’” She slipped him a silver. “Especially since....” She nodded toward Mal, having worked out his relationship to Anders.

The clinic was empty after she departed, and no one else was waiting outside yet. Caitlyn took a deep breath and turned to him. “Well,” she said, her voice brittle and dark, “whatever you weren’t saying at my uncle’s house, you should say now.”

He looked confused for a moment before recalling what she was worried about. “I truly don’t think you have anything to worry about,” he said. “When I was serving at Vigil’s Keep, in Amaranthine, something similar happened to me... I believe.”

“Oh?”

He suddenly remembered that he had not told her a word about Rolan or the gruesome fate of the ex-Templar— _or Justice,_ he thought with a pang. But now was not a good time for that with little Mal present. “There was a former Templar who joined the Grey Wardens,” he said, “the very one who captured me that day, in fact. Yes,” he added as her face instantly curled in furious recognition of what that implied. “He did it because he had it in for me. I’ll... tell you more about that _later,”_ he said pointedly with a quick glance at Mal. “But there was one day, the day after he joined, that we got into a brawl in the Warden library. I cast an accidental spark of lightning, and he panicked and used a Templar skill against me. And for a moment, it was _that day_ on the Lothering road all over again.” He closed his eyes in pain. “It was as if my own eyes and brain were playing a trick on me.”

She breathed heavily. “That is basically what happened. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing for a moment. It was frightening to be unable to trust my own eyes. What do you think it is? I wondered if it might be a spot of thin Veil, but I couldn’t sense anything magical.”

He gazed ahead thoughtfully. “I wondered the same thing, but I don’t think it is either, for the same reason. I think that this... phenomenon... could be _stronger_ in mages, certainly, since we can reshape reality... but I really think this is something that happens in our own minds. Even mundanes can alter their perceptions by drinking and consuming certain... substances. It doesn’t change what’s real.”

“Great,” Caitlyn muttered. “So it _is_ something like madness.”

“I didn’t mean that! I just meant that there are certain memories that are a lot stronger and more vivid than others, I’ve noticed—easier to recall, and just thinking of them brings back a flood of emotions and somewhat takes me away from what is happening at the present moment. These seem to be like that, but they bring up shock and fear instead of anything pleasant.”

She sighed, rubbing her head. “I suppose if there were anything you could do about it as a Healer, you would have done it to yourself by now.”

He chuckled darkly. “Healing magic only cures physical injuries. Traumatic memories aren’t.”

“And yet they’re sometimes the worst injuries of all.”

That, Anders thought, was far too true for comment. There was nothing he could say to it.

The sound of activity outside the clinic door interrupted their contemplation. “That’ll be the refugees who stand guard for me,” he said briskly.

“I actually wondered about that. Have you been threatened?” Caitlyn asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.

“Not directly, but they all seem to know that a Grey Warden would have coin about—and of course they know that I am a mage. Even though the Templars aren’t supposed to interfere with us, there are lawless zealots in the ranks... as I learned in Amaranthine,” he muttered darkly. “And I’ve heard nothing good about the ones here in Kirkwall or the Knight-Commander.”

“Then I expect everything that you have heard about them is accurate,” she said in bitter tones. “There seem to be an unusual number of the zealous kind here. The Knight-Commander looks at me whenever she passes me as if she _knows_ my secret and just needs proof.”

Anders glanced up sharply. “I hope you don’t carry that staff about much, then.”

“No more than I have to, but I _do_ have to sometimes. I can use a dagger in basic ways, but I wouldn’t last long against a pack of assassins or mercenaries if I didn’t have magic. Given the choice between being murdered on the street and using magic, what can I do? There _is_ an organization in Kirkwall called the Mage Underground that helps mages escape from this place. A Fereldan woman can’t go about in Kirkwall defenseless, Anders. I saw that from my first day here.”

He seemed to turn to stone at that, and whatever the strange magic phenomenon was, she was sure she noticed a flicker of it again behind his eyes for a moment. “Did somebody—”

“They tried once. It was the _last_ thing they ever tried, too,” she said grimly.

“Good.” The idea of her striking down a group of would-be rapists was very pleasing to him... and to Justice... but he hated that it had been necessary. So much loss and fear in her life shouldn’t have occurred—and he blamed himself for not being there. _I swore I’d protect them,_ he thought. _I swore to her father just before his death, and I couldn’t keep my word._

“But that doesn’t mean I’m safe. On the whole, I’d rather risk being taken to the Circle by Templars than... alternatives. Carver and I still bicker a lot, but I know he’d try to get me out. And you would too, of course.”

Anders breathed heavily, turning his head aside to stare outward. Caitlyn glanced at him and noticed that odd bluish-white crackle dart down his neck again. So, it seemed, did Mal.

“Is that magic... Father?” he asked.

Startled, Anders turned back as he realized what must have happened. “Yes,” he said to the little boy. “It is.”

“I know Mamma is in danger from Templars and bad people,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve heard her talk about it.”

Caitlyn felt awful suddenly. “Oh, Mal, I didn’t mean for you to hear those things!” she exclaimed, rushing to hug him. “There are dangerous people, yes—but I won’t let anything happen.”

“Neither will I,” Anders said, his words resolute and his voice strangely deeper.

Mal managed a smile, still somehow comforted with the belief that nothing that awful could happen to his parents—even though something terrible had happened to his aunt right before his eyes. His _parents,_ though, were different—or at least, he was still young enough to believe so. Anders’ appearance in Kirkwall must have rendered him invincible in Mal’s mind. Caitlyn realized it, and it made her feel profoundly sad to know that someday that illusion would end for him. She just hoped that it ended gently, by the maturation of his mind, rather than by another tragedy. She lifted her gaze to Anders and realized, from the look on his face, that he was having similar thoughts.

“Oh!” Mal was suddenly fascinated with a chart on Anders’ wall depicting regions of specific healing magic sensitivity in human, elven, dwarven, and qunari bodies. _If he’s a mage, he really might be a budding Healer himself. I... would like that,_ she thought as she lifted him onto the nearest bed to the chart.

Anders smiled proudly and then turned back to her. “There is one thing I can do, actually—but I won’t promise to do it unless you want me to.”

“Oh?”

“I....” He hesitated, vaguely sickened at what he was about to suggest, but it might be the only way. “If you are ever captured by Templars, I could conscript you into the Grey Wardens. I wouldn’t even have to make you a Warden,” he added at once. _And I hope to the Maker it never comes to that,_ he thought, _because if the Wardens themselves found out that I had conscripted her, they_ would _force her to take the Joining—and that is often fatal. I think she would survive, but some people don’t._ “Just making the claim would get the Templars to back off.”

For a moment she had been visibly affronted at the offer. Did she regard it as a way for him to control her? He didn’t mean it that way. It would be an option of last resort to _protect_ her. He wanted to protect her, to attempt to keep his promise to Malcolm for the surviving Hawkes.

His suspicion of how she viewed the offer was correct; her first instinct had been that he was mightily full of himself to suggest that. His reassurance that he wouldn’t necessarily have to go through with it cooled her off, however, and she realized why he had actually said it. After a moment, she nodded. “I’d rather you did not do it immediately, though, even if the worst did happen. Only do it if I got locked up and could not get out after... a fortnight, we’ll say.”

He nodded in agreement. “There are sacrifices to being a Warden,” he said in a low voice. _Not just infertility—I’ll have to tell you about that if, and when, we get back together, and if we do, that’s already going to be a sacrifice we both make—but other things too._ “I wouldn’t want you to have to take them on—but if I did have to conscript you, it’s possible that outside Wardens might learn about it, and they _would_ insist that you truly become one. Better that it not come to that. Just... be careful, all right? Maybe keep the staff concealed... or as concealed as you can.”

She shook her head in mild exasperation. “Advises the man who has been in Kirkwall less than a week. I’ve lived here for a year, you do know.”

He felt sheepish at that. “You’re right. I concede the point,” he said with a hint of a smile.

Despite the mild presumptuousness of the offer and advice, Caitlyn felt happier after the discussion. It was like old times, in a way—discussing a serious topic with Anders, but with banter and mild teasing mixed in, ending in mutual respect. _Maybe, despite everything, he isn’t so different after all,_ she thought. And although she didn’t believe she needed protection, it was nice to know that he wanted to offer it. _He wants to help people now,_ she thought. _That’s why he is here at all. He also mentioned being more motivated to help mages due to everything that happened. He has always been a Healer, but if anything significant about him has changed, it must be this—and that’s a good change._

He seemed to be thinking similar thoughts. When they raised their eyes to each other, she gazed into his warm brown ones and felt a sudden urge to kiss him—to lift her hand to his cheek and just embrace and kiss him right here, in the clinic. It had been so long, and she had missed him. _Yes, I have missed him,_ she thought. _I can admit that._ Anders took in a quick breath; he too seemed struck with the inclination to kiss her... but the moment passed, and they did not.

He broke his gaze with hers. “Right, then. So... I mentioned my... friend... from the Circle last night? How he needed to be broken out of the one here?”

All of a sudden, Caitlyn did not want to kiss him at all. _Oh yes, I remember,_ she thought with a rush of sudden... something. Anger? Jealousy? _Those would be the last lips he kissed, presumably, unless he got up to something as a Grey Warden and lied about it last night. —Oh, why am I thinking this?_ she argued with herself. _He wasn’t lying. I just need him to have been because otherwise I don’t have the right to be jealous or resent him for this man, since I did the same thing._

To him she replied, a noticeable coolness in her voice, “Yes, I do recall. You want to conscript _him_ into the Grey Wardens?”

Anders raised his eyebrows at her tone, or perhaps her suggestion. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a decent idea,” he said. “As long as they let him stay at a fortress and didn’t sent him into the blighted Deep Roads.” He shuddered at the memories of the Amaranthine campaign that Caitlyn realized he still had not shared with her—and that thought steamed her. He wanted a very risky favor from her but wouldn’t share all his secrets even now?

“You thought about it with _me._ Why not him? You don’t want to choose _his_ career, I see.”

He was startled at her sudden frostiness. “I really didn’t mean any offense, and that wasn’t what it was about at all! If you don’t want me to, I won’t!” He softened, his gaze pleading. “We parted as friends, Caitlyn. He had already ended the other because I told him about you. I just want to get my _friend,_ a fellow mage, out of that place.”

“He learned about me long before I learned about him, then,” she said icily, well aware that that was an unreasonable comment, but not particularly caring. She felt as if she were being emotionally coerced and extorted. “But very well, I’ll be your muscle if you insist—though I should say that outing myself as a mage in front of Templars _may_ not be the best way to keep it a secret. Though I suppose that if that happens, you can always _conscript me into the Wardens!”_

That one struck target. He sucked in his breath. “The idea is to avoid encounters with Templars and smuggle him out. If Leliana were locked up in the Aeonar, wouldn’t you want to get her out just so that she could be free?” he retorted. He felt bad about it—that seemed like a low blow—but he just wished she would understand that she would not have to “compete” for him if she wanted him back. He really did simply want to rescue a mage, his friend, from the clutches of Meredith Stannard and her henchmen.

She glowered back at him but could not dispute the point. All the warmth and closeness that she had felt merely minutes ago was gone, but her anger had returned, and she found a certain degree of comfort in the familiarity of that. “All right, Anders—yes, I would, though I expect that Elissa Cousland would take on _that_ particular task first. But I suppose this man does not have anyone who can do that.” With cold businesslike briskness in the gesture, she extended her hand for him to shake. They shook briefly, Caitlyn ignoring the pain in his eyes at this conclusion to their otherwise warm encounter.

She went over to the patient bed where Mal was studying the chart intently and quietly urged him that it was time to go home. He was momentarily crushed, but he seemed to understand that his father needed to work.

* * *

“So, let me get this straight,” Varric drawled as he and Carver accompanied Caitlyn to the Chantry the following night, where the mage was supposed to be waiting. “We’re going to bust out your former lover’s former lover from the Circle? Or rather, smuggle him from the Chantry after some mysterious others get him there?”

“Evidently,” Carver growled with a dark glare at his sister. “I still don’t know why. He said he’d give us the maps anyway. Though if it means he’s taking up with that fellow and not returning....”

Caitlyn had been listening to the conversation with growing resentment, not at her companions, but at Anders for asking this—and herself for going along with it—but Carver’s comment hit her like the pommel of a sword. “Then what?” she said, stopping in her tracks and fixing him with a deadly glare. “What would that mean to you?”

“That his vanity and his interest in styling your hair make sense now? I mean, all right, obviously he likes women too, but....”

“How nice, Carver,” she muttered, though a cruel—and hypocritical—part of her wanted to chuckle at his stereotyping. _“Try_ to remember whom you are talking to before you make these comments, please,” she added to placate the other part of herself.

“What should I remember, that you’re the same way or that you still have feelings for him? Because I remember both just fine.”

She was torn between denying the latter out of spite and merely coming up with a generic riposte, but Varric mercifully spoke up. “All right, children,” he interceded. They momentarily stopped bickering.

“Honestly, Carver, I don’t like it either. It feels like emotional extortion,” she said, relishing the words and banishing all thoughts of compassion or—especially—a debt to Anders from her thoughts. “But he told me that they were just friends now and he only wants to help his old friend.”

“At the potential cost of _your_ freedom.”

“That has occurred to me,” she muttered darkly. “He thinks he has a solution if that happens. Bloody Grey Warden self-importance. _‘I could conscript the Empress of Orlais if I wanted to and nobody could stop me!’_ Want to bet?” She knew that she was being unfair and that Anders had made no such assertion, but it certainly felt good to lash out. The revelations of the past couple of days had been an emotional shock to her, one that she was still unsure of how to handle, so retreating to the company of her old friends Rage and Spite was what she was doing. It was easier and simpler to find—or invent—reasons to be angry with him than to think about the four years he went through, his escapes, what he suffered, the despair he had in Amaranthine, Bethany’s ashes....

“He was already self-important enough, if you ask me.”

She laughed nastily, taking joy in it even though she knew she always would have defended Anders against Carver’s insults before.

Varric raised his eyebrows at the two siblings, but they were approaching the Chantry steps, so they ceased the commentary. Anders was waiting outside.

“I saw Karl go in,” he remarked nervously. “I didn’t see any Templars with him.”

“I didn’t see any either,” Varric replied, seeing that neither of the Hawkes probably should talk to him right this moment. “Let’s go inside.”

They entered the Chantry. At the top of a set of stairs, waiting in a wing, was a brown-haired bearded mage whose back was turned, facing a cabinet. The group approached him.

The mage turned around, and Caitlyn’s eyes widened in horror. The nightmare she’d had years ago, the dream of the Fereldan Circle room where Anders was being kept, the marking on his head—it _was_ on the head of this man.

“Anders, I know you too well. I knew you would never give up.” Karl’s voice was flat and hollow.

Anders had not yet seen the brand. He drew back for a moment, panic filling his face. This wasn’t like Karl. “What’s wrong? Why are you talking like—”

Karl turned around, and Anders’ eyes widened in despair as he saw what had happened to his friend. “I was too rebellious, like you. The Templars knew I had to be made an example of.” The words were still empty and flat, as if he were repeating something that had been told to him by someone else rather than speaking what he thought himself.

 _And that’s exactly what he is doing, because they took his own mind away from him,_ Anders thought in anguish as he burst out, “No!”

Caitlyn was too appalled at this, this nightmare made reality, to even listen to the rest of the horrible pablum—and as she tried to focus on something else, _anything_ else, she overheard the approach of footsteps.

Karl finished speaking at the very moment that a group of Templars approached the party. _An ambush!_ she thought in fury. _These bastards set up an ambush!_ She slung her staff off her back and readied a spell to blast them back—but before she could, the blue-white light that she had seen hints of and assumed was just a manifestation of a spell glowed from Anders’ entire body, illuminating his eyes like otherworldly lamps, crackling down his neck and limbs.

He tumbled to the ground, clutching his head—and in the next moment, rose to his feet, light blazing from his eyes and extending from his entire body in a glorious blue flame. His very voice was different as he roared, _“You will never take another mage as you took him!”_

_So that’s his secret! He really is a different person!_ The conclusion was instant for Caitlyn. She had never personally seen an abomination, but her father had, and he had described to her and Bethany how possessed mages transformed as the demons they had allowed to share their bodies took them over. There was no doubt in her mind that that was what she was witnessing.  _Anders wasn’t the only one ambushed—we were too, by him! He kept that from me!_

Without thinking, she blasted him full in the face with a cloud of entropic energy.

“What the _fuck?”_ Carver exploded at her as Anders went down. Fury and terror were in his blue eyes—and in the moment after the sense of vindictive satisfaction left her, she realized what a horrible, potentially fatal mistake it was to incapacitate an ally, even temporarily. Now she was faced with numerous well-armed Templars—with only Carver and Varric as allies, and no Healer.

Anders remained on the ground for a few seconds, the blue light suffusing his body, before rising to his feet, but the attackers had already wounded everyone. With a roar, he engaged them.

The lead Templar brought his sword down in an arc very near Caitlyn. A sudden burning sensation shot from her arm, then blood burst from her rent flesh to the carpet. It was deeper than a mere graze and continued to spurt. Jerking back, she clutched her staff arm with her other hand—which was a mistake. The Templar raised his hand, and a sickening sensation filled her as she felt all the energy in her body leave her. She collapsed to the floor, cold and shaking. The Templar hefted his blade to end her.

In a flash, Carver was in front of her, bringing his greatsword through the air in a deadly arc, cutting through the attacker’s armor and sending him to the floor in a gush of blood. Caitlyn felt a bit of energy returning to her, but she could barely get to her feet after that, let alone cast another spell—and her arm was spurting vividly red blood, a sure sign of a severed artery. She wouldn’t last long.

A blast of healing magic struck her arm, knitting the gaping, otherwise mortal wound back together. Shocked, she glanced at Anders, who was still possessed... but the demon had not transformed him into the hideous misshapen thing—or its own form in the Fade—that her father said always happened eventually. His body was still his own, though the Fade-light poured from it. _And it didn’t kill me,_ she thought in an instant. _It healed me_ —though there was still a gash, and a trickle of blood continued to ooze.

 _I wish I knew how to do blood magic,_ she thought, shocked momentarily at the idea that had crossed her mind, but it was in times like these, when her mana level was still very low in the recovery from a Holy Smite, when it would have been useful to have an alternate source of magic. She glanced at Anders— _or whatever is puppeting Anders’ body,_ she thought—who looked to be flagging himself despite the _thing_ that still suffused him with blue light. That was a powerful healing spell, so it probably took a lot out of him. She staggered to her feet and began to cast again, though her spells were not as strong as they had been before.

At last the Templars were all down. One of them was still struggling, and Carver brought his sword down lethally to still him. Varric raised his eyebrows at that, but only for a moment.

_He healed me. I took him down, and he healed me anyway. Another thing I owe him. Damn him, why? Why can’t he be cruel back to me?_ she thought.  _He claimed he could protect me, and then the bloody bastard went and proved it. I didn’t want—but if he hadn’t, we might all have died._

“I—Anders, what did you do?” exclaimed Karl, clutching his head. His eyes were wide with shock, and his voice was natural now, with emotion and variance of tone. “It’s like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like.”

_Because he did do that,_ Caitlyn thought mutinously.  _Whatever kept him from transforming fully, it doesn’t matter. He could have killed us all—and to get his former lover out of here, at that!_ She did not truly believe that; the time to do that would have been in battle, but it certainly felt good to think it.

“Karl—I—” Anders’ words were pained.

“It’s like the Fade itself is inside you, burning like the sun,” Karl continued. He gazed desperately at his friend, eyes wide. “Please, kill me before I forget again! I don’t know how you brought it back, but it’s fading.”

Anders closed his eyes in misery. Not this. Not this _again._ For a moment, he thought he was by the side of the road north of Lothering again, and another man—another mage—who had meant something to him was begging for death at his hands. It was not a full flashback like the one he’d had in Amaranthine, or the one that Caitlyn had experienced the day before, but it was still a horrible memory. _Another condition I cannot cure,_ he thought. _Another person I cared about, another mage with so much to offer, destroyed because he knew me._

“I would rather die as a mage than live as a Templar puppet,” Karl pleaded, his face strained in anguish. “Please.”

Anders closed his eyes, trying not to recall the words that Karl had spoken before Justice took over and, for however briefly, brought his friend back. _I would too,_ he thought—but he didn’t want to be the one to do this. Not again. He turned to Caitlyn, hoping that she would understand what he wanted—and forgive him for asking it, even silently.

To his despair, she merely stared back at him, her gaze as hard as stone, a fury of betrayal and outrage burning from her eyes.

“You’re the one,” Karl said to her. “The one he told me about. I’m glad that he found you again, now that they did this to me. Please—take care of him.”

She turned aside, closing her eyes momentarily as if that would also block out the words, then glowering at the floor. _No. I am done. He’s chosen his protector and he will live with that choice._

A cry of anguish escaped from Karl as he felt himself slipping away. “Do it, _please!”_ he exclaimed.

Anders realized that he was on his own. She wasn’t going to step up. _Why, Caitlyn? Why can’t you show an ounce of sympathy or mercy even at a time like this? You would have four years ago. What in the Maker’s name did these years do to you?_ But no, he was going to have to kill Karl, and it was his own damned fault. Choking back a sob, he drew his blade and advanced on Karl. “I was too late,” he choked out. _I’m always too late for the people I care about._ “I’m so sorry.” He gazed at Karl’s face, trying to fix this in his memories forever— _this_ face, the lively, animated face of his friend, not that other face.

“Why do you look at me like that?”

“Goodbye,” he choked out as he drove the dagger home.

The mage— _yes, he is a mage, and he is dying a mage,_ Anders thought miserably—collapsed to the floor, bleeding out, but with his knowledge of the body and his Healer training, Anders knew exactly where to strike, so it fortunately was no more than a few seconds. His face crumpled as he stooped to the floor to pick up Karl’s body, hardly caring if blood got on him. He closed his eyes and felt a tear run down the side of his face. _Goodbye,_ he thought again, hefting the body over his back.

_“So.”_

Her voice was vicious. His eyes popped open in shock, and he found her glaring at him in utter fury. Tiny flames were actually bursting from her palms, and she was making no effort to stop this. Her brother and the dwarf glanced at her in surprise—and in the case of Varric, sharp disapproval.

_Not here. At least wait to hear me out. Please._ “We should leave before more Templars come,” Anders said. “I’m going to go outside the city walls to burn him.”

Caitlyn’s thoughts were a mix of insults, swears, anger, and hurt pride as they descended the stairs. _He’ll want to talk again about the offer to conscript me to “protect” me,_ she thought. _He will want me to consent to his doing it immediately if I’m captured by Templars, not waiting two weeks or any amount of time at all now, after this. And even if I didn’t consent, if that situation arose, he’d probably do it anyway. Karl was a Harrowed mage, and Anders is a Grey Warden. This shouldn’t have been allowed. He will do anything now to keep someone else from going into that place—as if he has the right to protect anyone! He harbors a demon in his body and kept that a secret from me! He’s a danger to us himself!_

_He healed me,_ she thought again.  _Even after I attacked him. Surely a demon wouldn’t do that... but who am I to say what they would or wouldn’t do?_ she tried to reason.  _Who can fathom the logic of demons? He probably only did it because we needed every fighter we could have._

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” she snapped, following close behind him as they left the Chantry. “I suggest you start talking now.”

“Don’t do this, Cait,” muttered one of the others.

To her surprise, the voice was Carver’s. She halted in her tracks, letting Anders get a few paces ahead of them as they reached the streets of Hightown once more, and whirled around to glare at him. “What’s it to you?” she snarled, an orange flame blossoming from her hand and vanishing in the night air. “You approve of what you saw in there? He’s  _possessed!”_

“He didn’t turn on us, and this _isn’t the time,”_ Varric said through clenched teeth. “Let the poor man mourn.”

“He is possessed by a demon!”

“It’s not a demon,” Anders finally said. “It’s a spirit.” He glared at her. “You heard Karl. Do you think a demon would do that for him—bring him back from the brink like that, however—however briefly?” he choked. “Or _heal_ anyone? And yes, the spirit did it.”

“You spent the night in the same room as my _child!”_ she exclaimed, advancing on Anders again, ignoring his words. He was just defending himself again, and she had had enough. She was _sick_ of him always having a bloody answer. She wanted him to _hurt._ She wanted to provoke him to be just as cruel to her as she was to him, because that would cancel her guilt. That would make it even.

“He would never harm either of you,” Anders replied defensively, clutching Karl’s body as if it were a shield. “He knew exactly who you both were before I even met him properly in the Fade.”

“‘He’? Your demon is a man too, I see?” she snapped. “That explains a lot, I suppose. That explains the entire four years so much better than that sad yarn you spun for my family in which you are so conveniently always the victim and always the tragic hero.” Anders’ face crumpled at that, but only for a moment; in the very next, his expression hardened into rage of his own. The sight gladdened her. _At last,_ she thought—and she kept going recklessly, the vicious, cruel words tripping off her tongue faster than she could control them. “Not only did you turn to someone else once I wasn’t there, but you also decided to _literally_ share your body with a demon. I have to ask, are there any others you’ve invited inside? A wisp, perhaps, to replace your son? Or maybe there’s a new demon coming to replace _him?”_ she added with a nod to the body Anders carried. He was still standing like a stone as she continued. “That would be much more convenient for you. Unlike a person, if a demon gets cut off from the Fade, it can simply find a new _host.”_

_“What?”_ Anders finally exploded, though his voice was taut and cold.

Carver sucked in his breath, and Varric’s jaw dropped. “Whoa, Hawke, _not_ nice,” he muttered.

For a moment she wondered if she had pushed too far, and if the demon would make another appearance, but not a flicker of the bluish-white light appeared. The cold anger she was now seeing was all his own. He glared at her, towering upright and holding Karl’s body like it was a sacred duty.

He took a quick breath, then let it out. “You said you had changed. You’re right—you  _definitely_ have,” he said, his lips curling in contempt. He did not have to add,  _and not for the better,_ because it was unspoken—and she understood the message too. His nose turned up slightly as he stormed away, carrying Karl’s body on his back as he headed for the city walls.

Carver glanced at his sister in disgust, shook his head, and began to walk away toward Lowtown without a word. Varric was also scowling at her. He tried to calm himself by taking breaths. Meanwhile, she stood by, fists clenched, tiny flames still shooting from them as she glowered at Anders’ retreating form.  _Go, then,_ she thought.  _Go, and never come back, so I don’t have to face you... or myself, for what I’ve said and done to you tonight._ If she didn’t have to face her own cruelty, the anger and pride would take over, and she would be able to avoid the guilt entirely.

_Rage and pride are forms of demons,_ she thought idly—but pushed that aside. She wasn’t the one who was possessed.

“All right,” Varric muttered, startling her out of her glower. “I’m not your father, so I won’t scold you for that—but I’ll speak my piece and then leave it. If you don’t want to lose him forever, you’d better go after him and get on your bloody knees to apologize—and I hope that would be enough.” His tone made it clear that he was doubtful on that score.

She glared at him. “Who cares if he doesn’t come back?” she spat.

“You do.”

The simple words, spoken plainly and with little inflection, somehow broke her will.  _ Oh, Maker, what have I done? _ she thought as Anders’ tiny silhouette disappeared beyond the gates of Kirkwall.  _ What have I done? _

She gave Varric a quick nod and dashed after him, hoping she hadn’t ruined everything.


	14. Revelation, Conversation, Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration is “No Light, No Light” by Florence + the Machine.
> 
> I didn’t want to keep you waiting too long after the appalling display in the previous chapter.

_Can I do this? Is this truly what I want?_ Caitlyn dithered at the gates of Kirkwall, trying to calm her turbulent emotions.

_He should have told me the truth the first night,_ she thought.  _This was a big secret to keep from me. He thought it would have been “too much” for one night, but it wasn’t better to learn about it this way. He claims it’s a spirit, not a demon... but it did not look friendly at all. Could I really trust his assurance that it wouldn’t hurt me—or, more importantly, my child?_

_But that wasn’t the only reason I got angry,_ she thought with a pang.  _That only triggered the outburst and gave me an excuse. I was already angry about the nature of the favor. He wanted me to risk my own freedom—my own life, arguably—for something that, in retrospect, was obviously walking into a trap. There would have been nothing to keep that man from walking out of the Chantry himself if he were able. Anders should have realized that something was amiss._

_He did realize it. He suspected that there might be Templars there. He just didn’t suspect...._

_I wasn’t angry just because he wanted me to take on a risk. Taking on risks occasionally is what we do for people we care about. He did it plenty of times for me, and for my family, after he was captured. All of his escapes... going to a town that he saw was destroyed by the Blight... giving Bethany a pyre, knowing there might be darkspawn about._ That realization hit her like a stone.  _I was jealous, and I didn’t have a right to be, considering. I was in no position to judge him for seeking comfort when he was feeling despair. I did the same thing. And he_ was  _feeling despair in the Circle. He was feeling despair for a long time. He said that he thought we were all dead until we appeared in his clinic the other day. The things he saw... and he hasn’t even spoken of whatever he saw under Amaranthine except that it involved darkspawn that could speak._

_He should have told me about that... spirit,_ she forced herself to think, rather than calling it a demon.  _He shouldn’t have kept that from me even for two nights. That “surprise” made things worse._

_But it wasn’t the real reason I lashed out. Even jealousy of Karl wasn’t the main cause._ She leaned against the gate and closed her eyes. She knew why she had done it, and it was a reason that she couldn’t bear thinking of. If her explosion really had been about the spirit, then that would have been somewhat defensible— _though I shouldn’t have attacked him in battle or been deliberately cruel to him afterward,_ she thought. Even jealousy would at least have been  _understandable._ Hypocritical, considering her relationship with Leliana, and also cruel to be hostile to him after he’d had to end Karl’s life, but understandable beforehand. However, that wasn’t the reason for her outbursts. The real reason was something much worse.

_He suffered. Even if he turned to another person for comfort briefly, he never stopped trying to get back to me and he suffered terribly—and I couldn’t stand to accept that. I couldn’t stand to accept that I’d been wrong to form and hold a grudge, that he might have suffered almost as much as I had, but that he had never turned against me in his thoughts as I did against him. I lashed out at him as cruelly as I could so that he would respond in kind and end all chances for us himself. If I did it, if I ended it—whatever “it” even is, or was before tonight—then I would have been the ingrate and the villain. I wanted him to do it—or thought I did—because that would finally be a big act against me. It would balance the accounts. It would mean I never had to come to terms with my own anger and guilt._

She muffled a sob. _I may have gotten my wish._

She tried to focus. Varric had urged her to find him and apologize profusely unless she really did want to lose him.

_I don’t want to lose him. I suffered for years because I missed him and didn’t know what had happened to him, whether he was well, whether he might die or lose everything that made him himself—as happened to his friend,_ she thought with a pang.  _I don’t want to lose him... but he wants to mourn Karl. I shouldn’t interpose myself...._

_No, I shouldn’t make the discussion tonight all about myself. That won’t help anything. It might be all right to be there to comfort him, though. If I find him and just... apologize, but then try to be there for him...._

She took a deep breath. It was something like a plan. She just hoped that it would work. She slipped through the city gates and trudged in the direction that she had last seen Anders walking.

* * *

She finally found him in a clearing on a path that led up the mountains. His back was turned, and he appeared to be gathering wood. Karl’s body was laid out, his eyes closed and his arms crossed over his chest. Anders had put a mage’s cowl on his head, which hid the brand of Tranquility. Anders wanted to send him off as a mage, she thought—so very like him.

She backed away into the shadows when he emerged with an armful of kindling. He placed it around and beneath the body, and when he rose again, she stepped forward.

He tensed, grabbing his staff and glaring at her as he tensed like a predator ready to spring. She wondered for a moment if the... spirit... would appear again, but it was Anders’ own voice that came from his mouth.

“Why are you here?” he demanded furiously. “You said plenty in the city. If you’ve thought of more, have the decency to save it for a time when I’m not doing a _funeral—_ assuming you still have any decency.” His lips curled in disdain, and it was clear he was unsure on that count.

_There_ was the backlash she had thought she wanted from him—but now that she had it, it broke her heart. It was very possible that her words and deeds really had been unforgivable.

She cast her gaze at the ground. “I’m here to apologize, Anders.”

He scowled and remained tensed. “Are you? Just like that? Do you think that washes it away?” He turned aside and gazed at the pyre. “I’m not interested. You deliberately attacked me while those Templars were trying to kill us all—and then you said... well, I won’t even repeat it.” He turned his head to glare at her. “I suppose you didn’t like the results. You’re  _sorry_ that I reacted this way, aren’t you? That’s what you’re sorry for. You would say the same thing again if you thought it would end differently.”

She looked up and stared imploringly at him, eyes wide. “No! I....” She sighed; this was going to sound awful, but truth was truth. “I did that—I said those things—because I thought I  _did_ want you to react this way. I... Anders, I didn’t come here to talk about myself.” She rubbed her head. “I’ve been very angry for a very long time, and I turned it against you in my mind, and it was just a shock to me to hear about everything you went through. All the risks you took, what you did for Bethany... for all of us.... I felt terribly guilty the other night, and so I retreated back into anger to try to... well, to do this, to push you too far, because I didn’t want to deal with that guilt. It was wrong and cruel and I make no excuses. I’m sorry. And”—her voice wavered—“I understand if you can’t accept my apology or forgive this.” She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them and gazing pleadingly at him.

He was silent for a long time before turning aside without a word and gazing out at the body. She began to fear that it still would not be enough, that nothing would be now, and prepared miserably to leave. He cast flames at the kindling and sank onto a rock, his hands over his face as he slumped.

Quietly she moved away, feeling hot tears form in her eyes.  _That’s it, then,_ she thought.  _It’s over. For four years I told myself that I just wanted an ending—and now I’ve created one. You got your wish, Caitlyn. Hope it’s everything you wanted it to be._

“Goodbye then,” she whispered, unsure if he would even hear. He still didn’t respond or even look her way. Feeling hollow and empty, as if she’d just lost something incalculable, she turned aside and began to walk away from the pyre site. It would be a long, lonely walk back to Lowtown. She doubted that Varric would have waited for her outside the Chantry, and Carver was surely home already. A long, miserable walk, and the only person awaiting her whom she cared to see was Mal. A pang hit her at the thought of him, his innocent wishes for his father to live with them. Would Anders even want to see _him_ after this? Surely he would... but she dreaded the thought of facing her mother, who had been so hopeful....

“Don’t go.”

She stopped in her tracks and turned around, her heart beating. He was looking up, and though it was hard to be certain in the dark and the firelight, he did not look angry. She didn’t argue for a moment; she just turned around and walked back, sitting down on the rock nearest him.

He didn’t say anything after that for a while, just gazing ahead silently as Karl’s body burned, his face deeply sad and angry again—but she didn’t think this anger was directed at her anymore. It seemed to be anger at what had happened to Karl.

“Do you want to talk about him?” she asked quietly. “I’m sorry for what I said. I’ve no right to judge you and I’m glad that you had someone who was there for you, even if it was only briefly.” _Even if I wasn’t that person._ As she spoke the words, she realized that she meant them.

He was silent for a moment before speaking. “He _was_ there for me,” he said. “I don’t know what to say... what you can hear....”

“I can hear anything that you need to say.” She knew it might be painful, but she also knew she owed him this.

He seemed dubious, but sighed in acceptance. “If you mean that.... Well, he was my friend before my big escape—the one in which we met. Just a friend then; the other did not come until after I was... taken back. He was... this is going to sound bad, I know, considering, but he was something of a mentor years ago. Not like your father, of course; he was just an apprentice mage who was a few years older than me and knew the ropes. That type of mentor.” He gazed at the burning body. “He looked older than he was. Some people turn grey very early; he was one of them. I thought it was hilarious to give him a birthday gift of hair dye.” He tried to crack a smile, but it came out with a choked sob.

“That sounds exactly like you,” she said, trying to be encouraging. “What did he think?”

“He said that I should make sure to sniff my food and drink in the future, but that was just a joke, of course. He actually used it... and then went grey again after it was gone,” he replied. Another sob escaped him, all attempts at cheer gone now. “I... didn’t want this. I mean... of course I didn’t want this... but there was a time, after I learned what had happened to the Circle in Ferelden, when I thought it was better that he was sent here instead of being there while demons and blood mages were taking it over and killing everyone.” He wiped his eyes. “He deserved better than this. No mage ever deserves _that,_ but he... he was talented. He was... less aggressive about vocally hating the Circle than I was, but it was a quiet discontent for him. He wanted an assignment outside the Circle after he was Harrowed. He should have been given one.” He rubbed his eyes. “Instead they sent him here. That’s another reason why we....”

She felt sick for a moment and almost wished she had not asked; this sounded as though it had been very serious indeed. “So they separated you and him too. It happened to you twice.”

“He was already planning to end it because he knew about... you,” Anders whispered, “but... yes. Twice.”

She pondered that for a minute. “Four times my heart broke,” she said quietly. “Two deaths and two breakups that I didn’t want. And every time Mal did something special as a baby, my heart broke for you a little bit more.”

A strangled cry escaped from him at that.

“I thought I _must_ have suffered worse... but I don’t think it was so.” She closed her eyes and felt tears trickle down her cheeks. “I always had somebody,” she whispered. “I always had Mal, and Mother, and Carver. You were alone after they took him away—and now, to see him like this at the last. Anders, I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry—”

“I had Justice.”

For a moment she didn’t understand, but then she thought she realized what he meant. “Is that... is that the kind of spirit it is?”

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes, gazing at the pyre. “I met him in the Fade when I had a nightmare. I think it was around the time that Mal was born, and I was very upset about missing that. I... was close to making a bargain with a desire demon that knew where the phylacteries were stored... but he intervened and told me it was a trick. He had been drawn to me because of my anger about what had happened to us, the injustice of being torn from you and our son.”

“Oh, Anders....”

“I didn’t see him again until my Harrowing. He helped me defeat the demon I faced. Then... they sent Karl away, and I tried to escape, and that was when they caught me and locked me away for a year. He—Justice—was always there, in my dreams, and I became a Spirit Healer through the connection. The Templars never knew. He didn’t want this, Caitlyn,” he said. “He is one of the Maker’s first children, a force of good, the embodiment of a virtue. He never lied to me or tricked me into letting him... share. He never wanted to leave the Fade at all, let alone possess anyone.”

“What happened, then?” she asked. “How did this... come to be?”

“My Warden colleagues and I were sent into the Fade by a talking darkspawn, and he assisted us, but the foe that cast us out forced him out too. For helping us, he was rewarded by losing his home. He took over the body of a deceased Warden for a time, but... it wouldn’t have lasted. And that Templar I mentioned... the one who joined the Wardens... tried to destroy the body, and almost did.”

She considered that. “That was when you decided to make your bargain?”

“I don’t even know if ‘bargain’ is the right word. He would have... died, if that means anything. I just wanted to help him. He had helped me—saved my life, I think—and I couldn’t let him just disappear forever, as if he’d never existed. He and I were going to work together to bring justice to mages... to make sure that what happened to us, to our family, never happened to another mage child, or parent, or lover... but when I took him in, he... changed.”

“Anders,” she said, feeling bad that her tone was hardening again, but he seemed to be hinting at something that she did not like at all, something that made her scalp prickle with unease at the very thought of it. She had a child to protect, even from his own father if necessary. “If you are telling me that he _did_ become a demon—”

“It’s not like that! He’s still Justice... but when I become angry, when I see injustices against mages, he comes out, and he is a force of vengeance, and he has no grasp of mercy.” His face was hard and dark suddenly, and she realized that there was more to this story. Something had happened, something bad. He would not say that otherwise. If she had to guess, she would have guessed that the ex-Templar Warden who had tried to kill the spirit had not survived long after....

But that was for another time. For now, she just wanted to understand. “So... he talks to you?”

“Not exactly. I feel his thoughts, but sometimes they are less distinct than my own and sometimes more. He’s a part of me now.” He gazed out at the pyre again. “It was the only thing I could do to save him, in any way at all—and it darkened his nature to do it.” He choked on another sob. “Three people who mattered to me, who were there for me... and I couldn’t protect any of you.” A tear trickled down his cheek, which he wiped away furiously. “He did more for Karl than I could, in the end. He gave Karl one last glimpse of being human, being a mage. All I could give Karl was death.”

At that, she wanted to reach out and hold him, but she did not dare. She ached to comfort him, though, and tried to think of something to say. “You gave that to Karl too,” she finally said in a gentle tone. “Because this spirit was acting through _you,_ you were part of it.”

He considered that before nodding. “I suppose so. I....” His voice broke again. “I just wish I could have done more. I’m a _Healer,_ and he is a spirit of Justice. We are supposed to _protect_ the innocent... but it seems that all I can do is deal out death after I _fail_ and then gather the ashes.” He leaned forward, crying into his hands. “I wish I could have saved him. I wish I could have saved your father and your sister. I even wish....” He stopped talking, unable to finish. “Caitlyn, you’re not the only one with guilt.”

“I’m the one who deserves it. It’s not your fault that any of them died. It _is_ my fault that I held onto a grudge that was based on a falsehood and then turned against you tonight.”

He was silent for a moment. “About that.”

Suddenly the moment of bonding, even over mutual grief, seemed shattered. Caitlyn felt a sense of foreboding; his tone had changed.

“I believe you now. I believe your apology was sincere... and I’ve seen a different side of you than the raging cruelty. I have seen it when you are with Mal... and I’ve seen it just now, since you came to me here. The young woman from Lothering is still there.” He gazed at her, reaching out a hand momentarily as if to caress her face, before catching himself and drawing it back. “I understand, I think, why you cultivated this anger.”

“It was less painful to believe you were staying away on purpose and to be angry at you than to think of your suffering,” she whispered. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again. I didn’t think it could ever hurt anyone. But then we _did_ meet again... and you told me what had really happened... and the guilt is just too much. I don’t know....”

He sighed deeply. “I understand, but you can’t do it again, Caitlyn. You just can’t. You have to find a way to deal with it if you want another chance with me.”

She felt her hackles rise. “Can you control your spirit? It’s a force of vengeance when  _you_ get angry, you said. Can I trust you around my family—around our little boy?” she said defensively.

“Yes, you can, especially around him and yourself. The entire reason he came to me was how I felt about what happened to us. He wants to protect you and Mal more than he wants to protect me.” He stared hard at her. “You’re deflecting. You don’t have a rage demon; this anger is entirely your own. You can’t lash out cruelly whenever it flares up and then think it just vanishes, forgotten, if you apologize.”

“If you’re saying that I can never become angry with you—”

“Of course not!” he exclaimed. “I’m saying that I can’t continue... _we_ can’t try to have anything... if you’re cruel like you were tonight. There’s a difference between being angry about something and... _that._ You said you feel guilty about harboring rage against me for so long, but you don’t have to. Until tonight, that anger didn’t hurt me. It didn’t touch me at all. There was nothing for you to feel guilty about until tonight. Just let it go, and let go of the guilt too.”

She closed her eyes. “It’s easier to say that than to do it,” she said quietly. “You never deserved the things I thought about you—the things I made myself believe. Even if you didn’t know I was thinking them,  _I_ know it. And it  _has_ hurt you now.” She gazed at him, eyes wide with pain. “We could have died tonight, all of us, because of what I did to you in the fight. And then afterward... Maker, it was awful.” She turned to the pyre. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the burning body of Karl, hoping that he was listening from beyond the Fade. “You wanted me to take care of him... and the first thing I did was mock what happened to you and  _hurt_ him.” Yet more tears rolled down her cheeks as she spoke to Anders once more. “I’ll try, Anders—I’ll try. I don’t know how, but I don’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Anders was silent for a while. Finally he spoke again. “I  _do_ understand about feeling guilty over harboring anger and resentment that never actually hurt anyone. I have never told anyone this,” he said, “but when I think about what happened to the Circle of Ferelden... there is a dark part of me that thinks they got what complacent mages have coming to them for meekly accepting their lot. I resented them for most of the last three years I was there. I couldn’t tell any of them about you... and I never even told Karl about our child... but while I was thinking about your family in Lothering, they seemed satisfied with having shallow relationships and bowing to the Templars. I never took it out on them, but I saw them as part of the problem.” He glowered. “If they had lived, they still would be. I know that. And I  _hate_ thinking it. It’s horrible. It’s unworthy.” The glower left his face, replaced by an empty, hollow expression. “They died tragically. Many of them were children. They didn’t deserve that, and they didn’t deserve my hatred—even though it never hurt them. I know how you feel.”

“How do you cope with it?” she asked.

He sighed. “It’s easier because I don’t have to face any of them.”

She gazed down. “I don’t have any answers for you. I guess... tragedies don’t erase the past. A tragic, undeserved death does not take away someone’s failings in life. They could be undeserving of their fates, but still wrong in their ideas when they lived.” She opened her palms to him emptily. “That’s the best I can offer.”

He nodded. “I came to think the same thing, more or less.”

“As for my own... problems... I meant what I said. I will try not to let that happen again.”

He breathed heavily. “Caitlyn... I hate to issue an ultimatum... but I need more than that. If you had not come here, if you had not been sincere and kind, and listened, it would have been the end. Of chances,” he added to clarify. “Of possibilities. Your words hurt. I wasn’t happy when you attacked me in the fight either, but I’m sure the appearance of Justice was frightening. The words, though... you were extremely cruel. And I can’t take it—I just can’t. Not again.”

“What do you want from me?” she burst out unhappily. “I regret it, Anders! I would take it back if I could. I don’t want it to happen again!”

“It’s not something that ‘happens,’” he said. “It’s something you can control. I need your word, if you can give it.”

She turned aside, grimacing, her eyes closed tightly. Her heart was thudding. He was right, she knew—it was something she could control—but she had so much doubt nevertheless, and she was petrified of giving him a promise that she was not sure she could keep.

Moments passed, each one seeming like an eternity, though it was only a couple of seconds in total. Finally she opened her eyes. “I promise I won’t do it again,” she said, the words feeling like a prophecy of doom.  _I will keep my word, though,_ she vowed privately.  _I must._

He moved aside on his rock, leaving just enough space for her, and patted the empty spot. She hesitated, but only for a moment. In the next, she was beside him on the warm rock, the two of them leaning into each other and shaking from sobs that burst forth almost spontaneously.

“What happened to us?” she whispered through tears, burying her face against his shoulder for comfort and never wanting to let him go.

He cradled her, not knowing what to say.

“The last time....” She hesitated; this was not a romantic embrace, and she did not want to give him the wrong idea—but they _had_ been lovers, and it was pointless to ignore that as if it had never happened. In this very conversation, they had danced about the subject with words like “chances” and “possibilities.” “The last time we were... holding each other... my father and sister were alive... I was pregnant... everything seemed so bright and hopeful....” She burst out crying, wretched-sounding, embarrassingly achy sobs escaping from her mouth all the while.

She felt something wet drip onto her forehead and realized that it was a tear of his. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I look back on the past few years and all I see is death and destruction in my wake. I’ve corrupted a pure and good spirit who was a great friend to me. Your father died because of me. Karl died because of me. Maybe even your sister.”

It was horrible to hear him speak the very words that she had told herself to nurture and nourish her anger at him and absolve herself of her own guilt. “No!” she burst out with a choked gulp. “That’s not true. My sister...  _I’m_ responsible for her death, Anders.” A shuddering cry escaped her at the admission she was going to make. “When Leliana broke up with me, she told me she had done it because she knew I still cared about you.”

“It was the same for Karl,” he said softly.

“She went off with the Grey Wardens just after that, but before she left, she told me she would ask about you at the Circle and write to me with what she learned there. I know now why she was delayed... but _I_ made the family wait for the letter that never came.” She wept into his shoulder. “That’s why Bethany died. I made us stay too late. The town was overrun.” She choked. “An ogre was about to kill Mal, and me with him... and she rushed up to defend us. It’s all my fault. Not yours.”

Anders could not speak for a moment. “You don’t know that,” he finally choked out. “You don’t know what would have happened if you had left earlier. They might have already been on the path you took.” He squeezed her. “I was too late as well. Just a few days sooner and I would have been there with you.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head, closing his eyes to block out the pain. “But your father... he was helping me. He was exposed to the Blight sickness because he was on the road with me. Karl was used as bait by another pack of lawless zealot Templars because he cared about me. All I have left behind me is  _death,_ and it’s wrong. I’m a Healer. Maybe even... I don’t know, I might have been able to save lives in the Circle if I’d stayed. I might have been able to defeat the demons and blood mages. I’ll never know.”

“Or you might have been killed along with the others,” she said quietly, still suppressing sobs.

He was silent for another moment. “I probably would have.”

Caitlyn remained pressed against him, her face buried against his feather-clad shoulder. The feathers on his coat were now damp with her tears and his, and it was a strange and unpleasant sensation against her cheek, but she thought it seemed fitting. He was still shaking from his sobs, she noticed. She wrapped her arms gently around his waist to comfort him a little with a hug. It seemed to help; his own hug tightened.

She had cried for her father when Carver brought home his body and many nights thereafter. She had also spent many nights during her pregnancy crying for Anders, until the grief and miserable uncertainty became too much to bear. Since arriving in Kirkwall and having to live in Gamlen’s run-down hovel with no privacy, with his sneering disdain just around the corner, she had suppressed most of her tears for Bethany—but now they were coming out freely. She realized, as he held her and shook from his own sobs, that he too was mourning everyone he had lost, everyone he couldn’t save, beginning with the one whose body was being consumed by the flames.

She lifted her head just enough to gaze out at the pyre. _I’m sorry I didn’t promise what you wanted me to at the last,_ she thought. _I will do it now. I’ll try my best to take care of him._

As the sparks flew high into the air and her tears and sobs finally, gradually subsided, she reflected on the strangeness of the situation and the many questions that had arisen.  _Even if it is a spirit of Justice, even if it is part of his soul now, he is possessed,_ she thought.  _I am glad it is not a demon—I’m glad he is still himself—but this will be a difficult thing to adjust to. It may be a good spirit, but it was menacing tonight, and it will be there for the rest of Anders’ life._

_I am holding a possessed man who is the father of my child, while he sobs for the loss of another man who used to be his lover—but I had a female partner. And I have no idea what to feel about any of that. Can we trust each other? Can we trust_ ourselves?  _They comforted us... they were there for us... and we were separated for a long time... but we did turn to others for comfort, both of us. And even if we have a future, can we be satisfied? If we do try again... then might I someday miss being with a woman, and he with a man? What then? I’m far too prone to jealousy to consider “sharing,” and I don’t think he would go for that either._

_I gave him my word that I would check my cruel spiteful anger. I must keep that promise. I have to control this. I have to make it go away with respect to him. He doesn’t deserve it. There are plenty of things and people who do deserve my anger—beginning with this appalling, wicked system that did this to us in the first place. Chantry law about mages is to blame for most of our suffering, the Blight for some of it, and the cruelty and apathy in this city for the rest. We can fight those things. He is helping people who lost their homes, and often relatives, to the Blight. If this spirit he hosts can be kept from darkness, it might actually be beneficial to mages to have that voice, that beacon of idealism, that tireless drive. And I am going to get the Amell estate back and become somebody in Kirkwall. I am going to do something about this situation. This anger can be productive._

Finally, she felt a bit better. She gazed out at the pyre once again as she spoke to Anders. “We can try to make sure that they didn’t die in vain, any of them,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute.

He lifted his head and gazed at her. “How?”

“I... don’t have a solid plan,” she admitted, “but I swear, I will do something. For them.” She thought for a moment and added, “For our child. For all the mage children, parents, and couples.” She sighed again. “For the Blight refugees.”

He finally managed a grin. “That’s very ambitious.”

“The anger is not going anywhere,” she said in a low voice, her gaze cast down. “I just have to find deserving targets for it.” He gave her another silent hug before she rose to her feet unsteadily. “I should go,” she finally said. She gazed out at the pyre one last time. “I should let you mourn him, without... all of this.”

“He would probably prefer that we think about how to get justice for mages than be sad about him,” Anders said, a sad smile on his face.

“He was still your... friend,” she said, “and you should have time alone for this. You are welcome to come to my uncle’s house if you want... but I’ll understand if you want to be by yourself tonight.” She gazed long at him. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”

* * *

After she left, he thought about the conversation. She had meant what she said, of that he was certain—and he wanted to believe that she would keep her promise—but would she? Would her resolve last? He could not go through life accepting such cruelty from a person he cared for. If it did continue, he would cease to care for her. He was on the verge of it tonight, until she had turned up. Justice’s presence made it harder for him to accept vicious cruelty, and more inclined to steel and harden himself against caring about any who did that to him—even her.

_Please, don’t do it again,_ he thought, as if he could reach her thoughts with his own.  _I don’t want to stop caring. I don’t want this to happen. Please find a productive outlet for this anger, if you cannot let go of it._

He turned back to the pyre and sighed. The outrage of the spirit’s voice began to simmer inside him again.

_I will not let this happen again,_ he swore,  _and I swear to you, I will find the exact Templars who did this to you—and if they aren’t already dead, I will make sure I personally end their lives. There is never a reason to do this—mages who “choose” it because they’re afraid of the Harrowing should be told what the Harrowing is like, to prepare for it, and dwarves can work with lyrium. The Circles don’t need a supply of destroyed humans and elves. There is never a reason to do it—but it’s even worse to do it to someone to use him as bait to catch someone else. It wasn’t about Karl’s fears, or even about exploiting his labor. It was about me. That bastard Rolan must have had associates who learned from the Wardens that he was dead, and correctly guessed that I killed him, and some of his fellow zealots are here in Kirkwall. I will find out who they are. If I have not yet done so, I will avenge you, Karl, and I will make sure that whoever they are, they can never hurt a mage again._

The pyre burned long into the night. When at last it was nothing but embers and ash, he extinguished it and, yet again, gathered the ashes to take back with him.

He thought about her offer to spend the night at her house. It was tempting... but they would probably both think they had to talk some more, and it wouldn’t be a good idea. They needed rest first. He would visit the house in the morning.

* * *

Caitlyn was anxious and unhappy that night and the next morning when Anders did not show up. _Was that all for nothing?_ she thought as she rose from her bedroll. _Did he change his mind after I left?_ Carver continued to give her hard, disapproving looks all morning even though she had returned late, implying that she had followed Anders and talked with him the night before. _He_ had not followed _her,_ and apparently Carver assumed that meant that the conversation had not ended positively. _I thought it did,_ she thought unhappily as she gave Mal his breakfast, a bowl of porridge, and began to eat her own. _I thought we ended on a hopeful note. But if he changed his mind...._

A loud knock on the door interrupted the family’s breakfast. She jumped in her seat as her mother rose to go to the door. Was it Anders or Varric—or one of the associates of the Templars that they had killed last night?

Leandra opened the door to reveal a familiar young mage in a feather-pauldron coat. He gazed inside as she welcomed him warmly. Caitlyn leaped up from her chair.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed. “I was worried.”

He smiled mildly as Leandra hurried him into an extra chair at the table. “I needed to be alone last night,” he said. “It was... a lot to think about.”

Carver gazed from Anders to his sister and then glowered down at his bowl of porridge, but at least he was not shooting her contemptuous glares anymore.

“Won’t you have breakfast?” Leandra fussed over him. “There is plenty....”

He suppressed a shrug as she pushed a bowl before him and slopped porridge into it. He had eaten breakfast at the clinic, but he was a Grey Warden, and he was hungry quite often. Nodding his thanks to her, he tucked in. It was quite good.

After the family were finished eating their meal, Anders took Caitlyn aside. “Could we talk?”

She nodded at once. He did not look grave or appear to be dreading what he had to say, so she felt hopeful. Mal gazed up at his parents. “Can I come?” he pleaded.

Leandra realized that they needed to speak privately. She hurried to her grandson and urged him away, toward the dog. “I think your mamma and father need to talk alone,” she explained to him. “Let’s play with Baldwin.” The little boy seemed vaguely put out, but only for a moment, as the intelligent dog rose up from the floor to wag its tail at him.

Caitlyn and Anders walked out of the house and went to a private back alley. He studied her, considering. She did not seem to be in an angry or hostile mood today. The change had at least lasted through the night; that was a good thing.

“As I said inside, I thought about a lot of things last night,” he said quietly. “I want to try again, first. If... if you want to. If you are comfortable with me. And Justice,” he added.

She gazed outward. “I am nervous about him. I can’t say otherwise. You may know him as a friend who helped you and defended you in the Fade against demons, but my first experience with him was what I saw last night—the spirit taking you over and fighting violently. Yes, they deserved it—but that’s the first I saw of him.”

He considered her point of view. “I understand, I think,” he said. “And... in the spirit of honesty....”

“Don’t tell me you have one of those too.”

Startled, he gaped at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. She managed a grin, pleased that she could make him laugh, but it did not last long; he was focused on the conversation topic. “No, only Justice!” he said. “But I was going to tell you, just so that we don’t have any more big secrets between us—”

“No more surprises?”

“No more surprises,” he agreed. The smile faded from his face. “The Templar who joined the Grey Wardens to harass me... the one who damaged the body that he was inhabiting... he also drew his blade on me before he did that, as he threatened to report the Warden-Commander to some highly placed Seeker for having ‘unsupervised mages’ like me and especially for having Justice around. It was supposed to be self-defense, what happened....” He trailed off. “We knocked him out and put him to sleep, and then we... did the merge. He came to just as we were finishing it.”

“I thought that you must have killed him,” she said quietly, looking down.

Anders nodded. “He deserved it, honestly, and not just because he had it in for me. For a time, he was the one at the Circle who performed the Rite of Tranquility, because he believed mages were all doomed to the Void without it—and an awful lot of mages died in his custody while he did it.”

“He murdered them,” she concluded at once.

“Yes. The Knight-Commander dismissed him from the tower, but he did not punish or otherwise sanction him for what he had done. He had escaped true justice... until that day.”

“And he tried to kill you and Justice, you said. I’m glad you told me this, but there is nothing wrong with self-defense. You shouldn’t feel guilty about that.”

Anders grimaced. “It wasn’t self-defense by the time he came to. I had already taken away his sword, and I charged him—we charged him—with no more than a verbal provocation. It was vengeance, Caitlyn. And it... was gruesome.” He sighed. “I don’t like remembering the details. While it was happening, the spirit was in control. After he was... finished, I went to the Warden-Commander. I honestly expected her to execute me, but instead, she exiled me from Ferelden and sent me here. She showed me mercy.”

“She seems like a wonderful person,” Caitlyn said quietly, to fill space in the conversation. She was thinking about what he had said. It did trouble her that he would speak of the spirit being “in control” and acting violently, but it was exactly of a piece with what he had told her last night of the spirit having no mercy and becoming a force of vengeance when he was angry. Finally she asked, “I know you have said that he knows who I am, and who Mal is... but are you _certain_ that there is no threat to us? What if I did something that he disapproved of?”

Anders considered her question. “I cannot promise that he would never seize control again. He does it when he’s angry, and he might express his disapproval verbally... but it doesn’t mean he’s going to become violent, that I do promise. And no, he has never had a thought that threatened you or Mal—or anyone in your family. He didn’t lash out at you last night, after all, even when he  _was_ in control.”

She nodded, accepting his reasoning, though her behavior the previous night was still painful for her to think about. “Anders,” she finally said, “I cannot imagine what it is like for you now, and what I have to say may have no relevance to what you experience... but it seems to me that if he really is part of you, as you said, then you have influence over him.”

“I know I do at that,” he said bitterly. “It was my anger that turned him into what he is now.”

“Then your state of mind can influence him in the other direction too. I know this may sound odd, coming from _me,_ and I need to take my own advice,” she said darkly, “but just... keep to the light. I don’t mean to back away from addressing an injustice, but... I guess make sure that whatever you do is proportional to the injustice, and that it’s directed at the person who is responsible, and that it really is justice rather than... than personal revenge or venting anger. And yes,” she said again, “I need to take my own advice about that.” She gazed sadly at him. “We can work on it together.”

He nodded. “Yes, we could.”

Caitlyn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This is something I’ll have to get used to,” she said, “but you told me that he saved your life in the Circle, perhaps more than once. He saved you from a demon. And he was your friend and comrade in the Wardens and probably saved your life in the physical world too. Since this is the case, I’ll always try to value and respect him for that.” It was hard to say, but she knew it had to be said. Saying it was a spoken promise.

“Thank you for that,” he whispered. He seemed to understand what it took for her to say it.

“It’s the least I can do.”

He gazed sadly at her. “I told you no more surprises and I meant it. What I am about to say will sound presumptuous, and I should also warn you that it is a Grey Warden secret, so you shouldn’t tell this to anyone else... but you need to know, if we really are going to... to consider a future.”

She waited.

He steeled himself. “Wardens aren’t just names in a roll book. It’s not like the army. There is a ritual... and it’s permanent and irreversible.”

“The sacrifices you mentioned that Wardens make?”

He nodded. “One of them... a side effect of this ritual... is infertility.”

She stared at him, horrified for him. Her right hand found its way to her mouth.  _He missed most of my pregnancy and all of Mal’s infancy, and now he can never have another child._ “Oh, Anders,” she burst out.

He looked miserable. “I know. And if that’s not something you could live with....”

Instantly she moved to hug him, though it was still a comfort hug rather than a romantic one. “It’s all right,” she said quietly next to his ear. “It’s all right.” She didn’t want to say to him that it didn’t matter, because it certainly did matter to him, but it would never be a reason to turn him away and she hoped that her actions told him that.

He did seem to understand, as he hugged her back gently. “It’s hard to think about,” he said, “especially since... the lost years.....” He trailed off; it was too sad and infuriating to talk about.  _“This_ is what mages have to do to have a  _chance_ of living a life free of fear. We have to give up the chance of having a family... or, if we’re  _very_ lucky, expanding the one we already have. And even being a Warden doesn’t seem to be enough if you offend the ‘wrong’ Templars!”

She sucked her breath between her teeth. “It will end. We will make sure it stops. Someday.  _He_ won’t live this way.”

He nodded firmly. “No. He won’t. Justice and I agree completely about that.”

There was another potent silence before he spoke once more. “I still care about you,” he said. “I always did. I... never stopped loving you.”

She was not sure exactly where he was going with this, but he seemed to want to know whether she returned the feeling. “I didn’t either,” she said. “Despite how it looked last night.”

He smiled sadly. “Then if you want... could we try again someday? Once I’ve mourned... and we have made peace with everything... and we’ve gotten to know each other again as we are now?”

She took a long, shuddering breath and let it out slowly. Here it was, then. This was the question she had both longed for and feared to hear, but in the end, there was no doubt of her answer. “I would like that,” she said softly. “The innocent young couple who met in a snowstorm and only wanted a quiet, simple life are gone. This is who we are now.”


	15. Shine a Light Into the Wreckage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration is “Still Breathing” by Green Day on _Revolution Radio_. (I personally think that the Green Day song “Know Your Enemy” should be Anders' anthem, but... we'll see if I can work it into a chapter title later.)
> 
> This is mostly a transitional chapter.

After that, things between Caitlyn and Anders were different and yet not so different.

She was relieved that there was no more uncertainty underlying the meaning of their interactions. He wanted to “try again,” and she had agreed. That meant that once he had grieved for Karl and become accustomed to his new life in Kirkwall—and, she suspected, adjusted to the reality, rather than just the dream, of being a father—he would presumably flirt with her again and possibly even try to pick up exactly where they had left off in Lothering four years ago. When that time came, she would not have to worry about mistaking his intentions. It was a relief in that regard—as well as in the fact that she _would_ have another chance with him. _And I have some time to try to redirect my anger,_ she thought that evening. _I don’t want to be hostile to him now, but I’m under no illusion that this will last. I will be tested again in the future, when I’ve become used to him again and I’m distant enough from this last outburst that the fear has faded and I won’t acutely fear losing him. That’s when my promise will really matter, and I have to be prepared for it._

Now that she was seeing him on a daily basis again, all kinds of memories were returning to her mind, and she wanted very, very much to create more of them—for herself and for him, since he had suffered at least as much as she had. She had enjoyed her relationship with Leliana and had certainly had moments of happiness raising Mal, but she realized that she had not been truly joyful since Anders had left. Of course, the memories of their shared past were not  _exclusively_ happy anymore. They had once been, but now they were forever tinged with sadness and poignancy due to the many losses that they had suffered in the intervening years. Any future memories she formed with him probably would have that tinge of melancholy too, she realized. There would always be the recognition in the back of her mind that they had lost many people they had loved, lost four years together, lost certain other intangibles too— _his fertility, his carefree attitude, our innocence—_ but she still hoped that, if they had not changed so much that it was impossible for them even to get on, they would both recover some of their lost joy if they managed to get back together. She was glad to have that as an additional goal to that of recovering her mother’s family estate. Getting back the Amell estate would be satisfying, but it would be a cool satisfaction due to the family’s losses of Malcolm and Bethany, and the fact that it was ultimately only a material thing. Being with Anders again would also not negate those losses, of course, but it would be a more important gain than a house or even a title.  _And Mal loves him,_ she thought.  _He should have both of his parents, and he should see us caring for each other. I grew up witnessing that; so should he._ Still, she had consented to Anders’ request not out of obligation, but because she truly wanted it, and she looked forward to its happening eventually.

However, that time was not yet. For now, their interactions were just as they had been for the past few days. He was too acutely sad and angry about many things—and she gathered that his “deal” with Justice was rather recent too, not long predating his arrival in Kirkwall. It was something for him to adjust to even more than her. All of this, plus the simple fact that they needed to learn how to relate to each other in their new circumstances, meant that there was little flirtatious teasing, no heartfelt professions of love, no suggestions of escaping to the Sundermount or elsewhere outside the city to gaze up at the stars and talk.  _It is different to know that it is temporary and doesn’t mean he’s no longer interested—or isn’t sure if I am interested,_ she thought,  _but I just... I haven’t realized, I guess, just how much I missed him. I was too buried in my anger to allow myself to feel that._

It was too soon, she knew. She missed the Anders of 9:27. This man was older, sadder, darker—but she was too. That in itself was oddly hopeful, because it meant that they had changed in a similar way—and she knew for a fact that they had both become much more determined to change things for mages, because of their own suffering, the suffering and losses others they had loved had endured, and, most of all, the very strong likelihood that their child would someday show magic too.  _Our bond, if we can form a new one, will be different in that regard,_ she thought.  _But... the couple who fell in love in Lothering were young, innocent, and... kind of shallow and selfish. We have the potential now for something much deeper and more profound than we had then._

* * *

The first signs that things were _truly_ different between them came when Caitlyn began to pick up... what were they? She was not sure that her gradually growing team of boon companions counted as “friends,” but perhaps that was only not _yet._ For some of them, anyway.

A final job from Athenril that turned out to be rather misleading—the recovery of what she had believed was smuggled lyrium, but instead, was an assist of an escaped former slave from Tevinter—had led to Caitlyn’s “recruitment” of one such companion, the elf Fenris. He hated magic and his first comment to her after she had helped him attack magical constructs and shades in his former master’s mansion was to demand to know what she wanted to get from her magic.

_I want to get power in Kirkwall to make things better for people like me,_ she had thought, but she had known better than to say that to a man whose only experiences with magic and mages were extremely negative. Anders was present for this, and she had seen his disapproving reaction the very moment that the lie had escaped her lips, the quick assertion that “I’m just trying to get by.” He was disappointed in her, and after they had left Fenris behind in the mansion, he had asked her about it—or, more accurately, confronted her.

“How can you not stand up for us?” he had said. “How can we accomplish our goals if we won’t articulate them without shame or fear?”

She had wondered if this might be Justice talking, but she had not seen any signs that the spirit was about to assume control of Anders. “He was enslaved to a magister in a nation where mages have all the political power,” she had said. “There is a time and a place for stating those goals openly, and this wasn’t it. It would be different if I confronted Knight-Commander Meredith. This elf has suffered a lot, and I don’t stand to gain anything by holding forth to him. I don’t agree with his views, obviously, but I don’t think declaring that I want power to improve mages’ lot is  _quite_ the best way to make him see me differently than the other mages he has known.”

Anders had scowled. “You were confrontational with  _me,”_ he had muttered as he turned aside, “and I suffered too.”

At that point, she had realized that he was feeling a spark of jealousy. It was astonishing to her that he perceived any cause for jealousy; she was actually rather put off by Fenris’s ungrateful reaction—even though the elf had acknowledged that he was being ungrateful—and certainly could not imagine becoming more than friends with him, ever. She had also suffered and lost too much to want a romantic partner who fundamentally disagreed with an opinion of hers that was deeply personally significant to her, someone who, at best, would only ever see her as a rare exception to his own rule about mages.

“And I’m still sorry about that,” she had said to Anders. “I promised I won’t do it again. As for Fenris... to achieve our goal, we have to change people’s minds when possible. I want to change his mind, at least about the two of us, and my father and sister if I ever talk about them to him. And Mal, when he first does magic.” She had blinked, startled at what she had just said about her son, but she did not doubt it any longer. His fascination with Anders’ clinic was not that of a dilettante; it was that of a person who instinctively knew that he could do the same thing but just had not learned how yet. “That’s it. Trust me, you do not have _anything_ to worry about.”

Anders had glowered, somewhat embarrassed that he was that transparent, but he had accepted this.

His reaction to one other companion was better. After the initial meeting in his Darktown clinic, Anders had come to get along well indeed with Varric. That was a relief to Caitlyn, who—despite her own growing awareness that the dwarf was involved with quite a lot of shady dealing in Kirkwall—increasingly trusted him, and so did Anders, though perhaps  _that_ only came to pass once he could see for himself that Varric really was not pursuing Caitlyn.

Caitlyn had quite a basket of feelings to sort out after they met Merrill the Dalish elf. She had not particularly wanted to go to the Dalish camp on the Sundermount at all, because the purpose was to repay the favor that Flemeth had extorted from her family—and after Merrill had performed a ritual on the amulet Flemeth had given Caitlyn, resurrecting the old witch, Caitlyn wished she had broken her promise to Flemeth and destroyed the blasted amulet. Nothing good could come of Flemeth’s reappearance in the world in the long term, she was sure. However, it seemed that Flemeth’s business with  _her_ was done, and the trip had not been for nothing. Merrill returned with them, exiled from her clan. She was also a mage—and a blood mage, and the Dalish did not permit blood magic. Anders had not liked that  _at all,_ and if Caitlyn were completely honest with herself, she was uncomfortable with exactly how the elf had learned blood magic. A pride demon had taught it to her in the Fade, a fact which she was not at all ashamed to admit. She was not possessed by the demon, but Anders seemed to regard it as a matter of time. However, Caitlyn had not forgotten how horrifying it was to feel completely helpless and vulnerable after the Templar had drained her mana in the Chantry. If she knew how to tap an alternate source of magical power, she would never be helpless again, and perhaps Merrill could teach her the basics.  _Just the basics,_ she thought.  _Just enough to know how to use blood to power ordinary spells, nothing about controlling people’s minds or the like._

She was also—she had to admit it—attracted somewhat to Merrill. She’d had the same reaction to the little elf that she had to Varric, and for that matter, to Anders himself four years ago when she first met him: the realization that she thought Merrill was quite cute. This was troubling to her.  _Am I actually more attracted to women than to men?_ she brooded after she realized her mild crush on Merrill. As handsome as she still thought Varric was, her mild crush on him had not advanced any further despite their burgeoning friendship. Indeed, the fact that it was becoming such a good friendship seemed to be killing off the crush. She... was not sure that the same thing would happen with Merrill, especially if she did ask Merrill for basic tutelage in forbidden magic. She would have to keep that from Anders if she did, since he deeply disapproved of blood magic—and a secret like that could come between them. It was frightening to her; she did not want to choose between being helpless and losing Anders—or, perhaps worst of all, not being bothered, because someone else had replaced him even when she knew he was alive and living in the same city with her. That would be unlike her relationship with Leliana, when he had been absent and she had convinced herself that she would never see him again; that would be replacing him indeed.

_Settle down,_ she chastised herself while brooding over this.  _You’re worried about it, terrified in fact, so that in itself is a guard against it. And blood magic is still dangerous even if it’s not learned directly from a demon. It draws them in anyway. Better to just avoid being the victim of a Holy Smite again. That wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t taken Anders out of combat, after all._

In addition, she knew that her attraction to Merrill was not as strong as the one she felt for him. She was not even sure it was as strong as the attraction she’d felt for Leliana, for that matter, based on the kinds of things she thought about. When she had brief, guilty fantasies about the Dalish elf, they were limited to thoughts of cuddling, hugs, and fairly chaste kisses on the cheek.  _This will pass,_ she realized.  _It will be like the thing for Varric and will subside into friendship as long as I allow that to happen and don’t obsess over it. It will pass and Anders will never even know._

In retrospect, she supposed she should have known that it would not be that easy.

* * *

“I’ve noticed how much you look at Merrill,” he said to her in the Hanged Man one day. His face was twisted with pain and jealousy, and she noticed that he had ordered whiskey instead of ale, as if he needed the extra punch—or thought he would. “I have to ask if there’s anything between you and her. If....” He broke off, reconsidering his words. “That is....”

_Anders is a lot more possessive than I realized,_ she thought suddenly as she stared at him. Sadness was present in his facial expression, but there was a great deal more jealousy. He had not reacted this way to learning about her relationship with Leliana, but then, that was in the past. It was not a direct threat to him that he had to face. Deciding quickly that truth was best, she responded without waiting, not wanting this to fester. “I like talking with her,” Caitlyn admitted. “She knows magic that’s very different from anything I ever learned from my father—and I don’t mean blood magic,” she added as his face twisted and his eyes widened in a glare. “My father was an apostate, but he was trained at the Circle like you. The magic that you and I know is basically similar even though we have different strengths. But the Dalish tradition is quite different from the Circle tradition, and it’s fascinating to compare notes, one mage to another. I also... think she’s cute, yes,” she said, watching as he glowered at that. “But no, there is nothing between us except the beginnings of a friendship, and I don’t intend to let there be anything more than that.”

He breathed deeply, looking aside to the wall to collect himself and taking a sip. “If you’re certain of that.”

“I am.” She felt a little guilty about the thought, but seeing Anders so manifestly jealous—even if there was actually nothing for him to be jealous of—made him even more attractive to her. _It means he wants me,_ she thought in explanation. It also diminished the idle crush, making it perfectly clear to her that that was all that it was. She realized that if their reunion had progressed to the point of physical affection once again, they probably would have shoved each other against the walls possessively right now and—

_Cool down,_ she told herself, taking a deep breath. She took a sip of her ale.

He had not noticed her sudden rush of desire, or perhaps it had not been physically apparent. As he turned back to her, a wry smile appeared on his face. “I’m simply not accustomed to sharing you with anyone except your own family,” he remarked, still with that smile.

“They’re friends.”

“Who you think are cute.”

She gave him a defiant shrug. “I can’t help that. It doesn’t mean anything, though.”

“You were mightily jealous of Karl, I seem to remember.”

She was a bit surprised that he could speak of that without agony in his face. It had been several weeks since that, and his grief certainly would have moderated, but still, perhaps this meant that they were closer to a major change in their interactions than she had known. “You had a relationship with him,” she said. “I haven’t had anything with Merrill—or Varric, for that matter—except friendship, nor do I mean to.” She raised her eyebrows at him.  _“You_ are mightily possessive. I am not going to give up my friendships. I’ve had few enough of them in my life as it is.”

His face fell in dismay. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that! I just... wanted to know, that was all. Where you stood. And where  _we_ stood.”

A pang of unhappiness hit her at that; she had not meant to kill the moment, but killed it was. He seemed to realize it too, from the regret that filled his features.

“I should go home,” she said, her words pained, as she drained her flagon. “My mother has been taking care of Mal, but I think I have put that on her too much since we moved to Kirkwall. I’ve been busy, but....” She sighed. “You are welcome to visit tonight, as always.”

* * *

The scene at Gamlen’s house was tense, she noticed at once. Carver was sitting on the divan, a moody scowl on his face as he counted the Deep Roads buy-in coin they had saved from doing odd jobs around town. He knew perfectly well that it was not enough yet, Caitlyn thought, so this must be a distraction from something else. Her mother was glowering at Gamlen’s closed bedroom door, and Mal was asleep in her lap. Caitlyn sat down next to her mother, gazed down at him, and stroked his head gently. “What is the matter?” she asked.

Leandra shook her head, not wanting to talk about it. Her cheeks flushed faintly.

Carver looked up from his counting, a deeply hostile look on his face. “Mother is ashamed to say it. Uncle Gamlen came in completely drunk, a whore on his arm.” He scowled at the closed door, making it all too plain to Caitlyn that her uncle and his companion were in there right now.

Caitlyn’s face curdled into deep anger. “Oh,  _did_ he?” she said harshly. She looked down at Mal. “And I’m sure Mal noticed!”

Leandra was humiliated, but she finally could speak. “He asked why Gamlen brought different women into his bedroom,” she whispered. “He said that you, Caitlyn, never brought anyone into the room except ‘Father’ and didn’t understand. I was so furious—”

“Not as furious as I am, I’d bet,” she snarled, rising to her feet. She stalked over to the corner and grabbed her magic staff. “I’ve a good mind to go in there right now and burn them both to a crisp!”

_“No!”_ Carver exclaimed. “Caitlyn,  _please,_ don’t do that—don’t use magic in front of the woman—we don’t know her—”

She saw his point and tried to calm herself, but it was very difficult. “He’s exposing my three-year-old child to his habits!”

Leandra sighed fretfully. “It  _is_ his house,” she said, putting a forced dutiful tone into her words, “and we are his guests.”

Her tone and words only riled Caitlyn even more. “We still have rights,” she insisted. “I’m going to have some words for him once the woman is gone. She’d better not spend the night!”

She had managed to channel her anger toward the frustrating situation in Kirkwall and the various street thugs and slaver gangs that she fought from time to time. She had kept her promise to Anders so far not to lash out cruelly at him—but  _Maker_ did it feel good, in a certain dark way, to have someone else she knew who deserved it now.

* * *

The woman emerged from Gamlen’s bedroom in a bit, slinking along the wall to avoid the family. Once she was out the door, Caitlyn grabbed her staff and stormed into the doorway to her uncle’s room. Glowering furiously, she cast a spell that lit the rock crystal globe at the end of the staff, creating an eerie blue glow that reminded her of Anders’ appearance when Justice was in control. That thought briefly amused her.  _This is a kind of justice,_ she thought.

“Put that damned thing out,” Gamlen barked. “Hurts my eyes.”

It was just the provocation she wanted. “Oh, hungover, are you?” she snapped. “Too bad for you! A bit of a headache is the least you deserve! I’ve already heard about how you stumbled in drunk,  _again.”_

“Your brother said you were in the Hanged Man. You’re one to talk.”

“My problem isn’t that you drink; it’s that you are _constantly_ drunk! You drank up the Amell fortune! And my child saw it tonight—and more importantly, Mal also noticed your ‘guest’ and inquired innocently about why you take different women into your bed every night!” From the common room, she heard her mother whimper in defeat, but she did not care. She was riled and she was going to see this through. It had been a _year_ of this, of tolerating his conduct, of serving out an _indenture_ because of his profligacy and enduring offensive comments and outright threats from Kirkwall bottom-feeders—all because it was “his house,” in her mother’s words. She had no patience for her mother right now.

“I don’t have them _every_ night,” Gamlen said, “but let me make sure I got this right. You’re upset because your bastard son is getting an education in the real world?”

If she could only barely contain her anger before, that was the end of it. Her entire gaze seemed fogged with rage. A searing fireball formed in her hands, and she prepared to hurl it directly at her uncle’s bed, when she felt Carver grab her arm. “Don’t do it!” he exclaimed.

The fireball vanished, but her anger only increased. She turned back to her uncle’s bed. “If you _ever_ use that word for him again, I swear, I will light you up like Andraste on the stake!”

Carver was shocked but deeply amused; he suppressed a guffaw at his sister’s blasphemy.

“You have a problem with my women? When were you going to tell him how you got him?” Gamlen continued, undeterred now that Carver had somehow convinced his sister not to burn him.

Her rage erupted once again. “Not that it’s any of  _your_ business, but I’ve had  _one_ male partner in my entire life and he’s being a father to Mal now—so don’t you  _dare_ say that about him again!” She would not say it, certainly not to her awful uncle, but his words hurt her deeply.  _He’s “illegitimate”—for now—but he’s not a “bastard.” He’s not fatherless. He’s not,_ she thought. This was one of the subjects about which assorted Kirkwallers had insulted her for the past year, and she was sensitive about it—and insecure—and anger was still her default way of handling that.

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” drawled Gamlen. “You’re just as _virtuous_ as your mother.”

The double-edged insult did not go unnoticed by either Caitlyn or Leandra. In the living room, Leandra shifted on the divan, angry with her brother again. Caitlyn thought she heard her mother’s shoes patter on the floor and her clothes rustling, but Leandra did not appear in the threshold with her or Carver.

“You know,” she said, continuing to glare, “I actually don’t care who does what with how many people. But exposing my child to it—and not just the whoring, but you are _constantly_ drinking or drunk! I’m sick of it! This is your house, Uncle, but he is _my child_ and I have the right to control what he sees!”

“You think he’ll never learn about these things?”

“He’s _three!_ He doesn’t need to learn about them right now!”

Someone else tapped her shoulder from behind. She whirled around, expecting her mother, and nearly gasped out loud at the sight of Anders.  _The noise wasn’t Mother’s shoes,_ she realized in a flash.  _He knocked on the door and she let him in._

“Do you want to come back to the clinic tonight?” he asked seriously. “Mal too, of course.”

She breathed deeply, trying to still her outrage at her uncle. “I... might. If you have room.”

Gamlen laughed nastily, clearly expecting them to do exactly what he had just finished doing, and equally obviously regarding that as hypocrisy.

“There is room for bedrolls if....” He trailed off as Mal yawned awake. A smile formed on Anders’ face in spite of everything, and as the group headed away from the threshold—Carver closing the bedroom door behind them—that smile broadened as his son met Anders’ eyes briefly. The child smiled himself for a moment before nodding off again.

“You missed my sister telling him that she would light him up like Andraste on the stake,” Carver said.

Anders hooted with wicked laughter, but only for a moment. “She has mentioned that it’s... difficult... here,” he said with a sympathetic glance to Caitlyn.

Carver scowled. “None of us get along great with him—”

“Carver,” Leandra scolded.

“It’s true, Mother. Cait is right. We can’t stay here much longer. We’ve got to get the rest of the coin to buy into the expedition, so we can get a hold of the treasure and get the estate back. Let Uncle Gamlen live however he likes—as long as we don’t have to deal with it. But... he and Cait have clashed worse than anyone,” he finished for Anders.

“He’s right. We have,” she agreed, not even attempting to dispute it or feel shame.

“Do you want to spend the night in the clinic?” Anders asked again.

She thought about it. This seemed like a precipice... _probably not the one Flemeth was talking about,_ she thought wryly, _but another one. I won’t hesitate to leap from this one either, though._ “You know, I think I do,” she said. She turned to her mother and brother. “Baldwin—what about him? Do you want him to stay here?”

Leandra was clearly very anxious about Anders’ plan. “Cait, you shouldn’t go to that place,” she pleaded. “No offense, Anders dear, but Darktown.... Why can’t you stay overnight instead?”

“I’ve never been attacked there,” he said. “My clinic is warded. And I don’t think she wants to deal with her uncle tomorrow morning.”

“Still... take the dog with you,” Leandra said. “If—if you want to, of course. We’re fine. Carver can use a sword. You need additional defense more than we do, if you’re really going into that dreadful place.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I’m going to have to have a talk with Gamlen tomorrow,” she murmured almost to herself. “We’re still family, no matter what....”

A voice came from behind the closed bedroom door. “Leandra, I don’t want him here overnight. She has such a problem with my company, well, I don’t want to hear them at it either!”

Expressions of disgust and rage formed on the faces of everyone in the common room. “Right, then,” Anders said, rising to his feet and lifting his half-asleep child from the divan. “Cait?”

She sneered with contempt at the closed door as she grabbed her pack, a change of clothes, and her staff. “Right indeed.” She snapped her fingers at the mabari, who rose to his feet and ambled after his mistress.

* * *

It was very odd, momentous in a way, to walk into the clinic with the boy and dog, knowing that they were going to spend the night there. She realized too late that she had not picked up any bedrolls. “Anders,” she exclaimed, “Mal—the patient beds—are they clean enough? I forgot to pick up our mattresses....”

Anders smiled as he closed the door, restoring his wards on it. “They’re clean,” he said. “Infection would spread if I didn’t clean them after every time someone used them.”

Mal yawned. “Are we staying the night where Father works?”

“Yes, darling,” Caitlyn soothed him. “And Baldwin is here too.”

“Do you hate Uncle Gamlen?” he asked innocently, eyes wide.

She felt a pang. “Oh, no, of course not,” she said. “I’m just very angry with him, and sometimes when we’re angry enough with someone, we don’t want to be around them for a time. Your great-uncle... is sick, Mal.”

“But can’t Father fix him?”

She sighed and turned to Anders, who gazed sadly at him. “Your Great-uncle Gamlen has a kind of sickness that I can’t cure,” he said. “It’s a sickness that makes him think he has to drink all the time, and it makes him... do other things too.”

Caitlyn was not convinced that Gamlen’s whoring and fiscal profligacy were strictly  _caused_ by his addiction to the bottle, but she did think that all the issues were related.

“But are Grandma and Uncle Carver going to be all right?”

Caitlyn gave Mal a gentle hug. “Yes,” she assured him. “Uncle Gamlen isn’t a danger to anyone. He doesn’t hurt people. We just came here tonight because we’ll all be happier and will sleep better here.”

The little boy seemed to accept that. He yawned again, and it was just too much for his parents. “Let’s get you into a bed,” Anders said, lifting him up. He set him down on one of the patient beds, which he then wheeled across the clinic to stand next to the hole-in-the-wall where he slept himself. He pushed the bed against the wall and turned to Caitlyn. “Does he roll off the bed?” he asked quietly.

“Not that I’ve ever seen.”

“Still....” He glanced uneasily at the hardwood floor, then stepped away, slung his staff off his back, and cast a glyph at the side of the bed. Caitlyn recognized it as a ward that most people could not cross unless they had powerful magic of their own—which a three-year-old child, even a likely future mage, would not have yet.

“That’s clever,” she remarked, genuinely impressed. “I’ve never thought of using a glyph that way. But then... I don’t know any of the creation school of spells.” She smiled at him. “I might have to ask you to teach me the basics someday.”

He smiled back, a real smile rather than a sad one. “I think every mage should know the basic, general-purpose healing spell, just in case.”

“I doubt I have any affinity for the strong, specialized kinds that you do... and of course, there’s Justice,” she recalled. “I’ll... pass on Spirit Healing. He’s been very well-behaved lately, though.”

“We haven’t encountered injustices against mages,” Anders said quietly. “That specifically is what sets him off. These odd jobs that you’ve done have mostly been about recovering lost valuables for people and dealing with ordinary street gangs.”

“I suppose that’s true. We’ll have to take on Meredith eventually, though. Anders... please... try to train him to accept your control before that time comes.”

Anders felt overwhelmed, and in these moments as well, Justice sensed his weakness and felt the inclination to take over to provide moral strength for his host. Anders knew it was coming and rallied himself. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said, trying to keep it light. “The Deep Roads treasure first.”

She managed a chuckle; the conversation _had_ gotten very heavy very quickly. “Actually, sleep first.”

“Ah, yes.” All of a sudden, the entire atmosphere changed. Anders gazed at the nook where he kept his small bed and personal belongings. It was a single bed, and if she wanted to share it, there would be enough room, but they’d have to curl up very close—he found that a growing part of him liked that idea, even if the rest of him shouted that they shouldn’t do that without having a conversation first—

She was staring at the nook as well, but she turned aside, her face hard and resolved, and drew away from him. She picked up her pack and staff and headed for another patient bed. He swallowed his disappointment and headed to his own bed. The dog plopped down on the floor, guarding his family even in his sleep.

* * *

Caitlyn was pulled out of the Fade by the sounds of someone crying out. Unsure at first whether the one suffering a nightmare was Mal or Anders, she blinked herself fully awake and rose in her bed. _Is it dawn?_ she wondered. There were spots in Darktown where light from the outside filtered in, but this was not one of them with the doors closed. It could be any time.

A light then illuminated the clinic space, but it was definitely not natural sunlight, or even moonlight. Caitlyn rose from her bed and gingerly crept toward Anders’ nook, hoping that the spirit did not lash out at her. She pulled back the wall cladding and gazed in.

He was curled into a ball on his bed, blue light flashing up and down his body as he muttered cries in his sleep. The covers were gone, kicked into a ball at the foot of the bed. His face was contorted with pain.

She nudged him hard. “Wake up,” she urged. He moaned but did not come to. She pushed him harder and slapped his cheek, though she hated doing that. “Anders— _wake up!”_

That brought him to. The light faded as Justice receded, and he blinked awake, breathing heavily. He shivered for a moment, looking around for the blanket, but she was already covering him with it.

A sob escaped him as she sat on the bed beside him. “I’m sorry for waking you,” he said, unable to even look at her.

She did not hesitate for a second, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning into him. “It’s all right,” she said softly.

He muffled another sob. “Grey Wardens have terrible nightmares,” he muttered. “Cousland said that they’re worst of all in a Blight, and she would know... she said that during the Blight, she dreamed about the Archdemon... I haven’t seen it in the Fade, of course, since it’s gone, but the things I do see....” He shuddered. “It’s something else I guess you should know about. And I think it’s worse because of everything else that happened to me before I even became a Warden.”

She held him for a moment. “I have nightmares too,” she said. “I doubt they’re as bad as yours, if being a Warden causes them to become worse... but you’re not alone. And I’d probably disrupt your sleep just as much as you disrupted mine.”

A bleak laugh escaped him at that.

“They aren’t real, though,” she said.

The laugh quickly morphed into another sob. He rubbed his eyes miserably and gazed up at her. “Some of them are,” he whispered. “That’s the worst thing about it. Sometimes I dream of things that _did_ happen. I relive them in the Fade.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d had dreams like that, and they truly _were_ the worst. Not knowing what to say, because there was no good comfort for that, she pressed against him silently, trying to comfort him without words.

“I’ve brought death to people,” he burst out. “Your father, Karl, your sister—”

She rose from his chest and shook her head at him. “Don’t do this again, Anders. It’s not so. None of that is your fault.”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “You say that, but they might all be alive if I hadn’t been in their lives. I’m certain that Karl would still be alive and still a mage, even here in Kirkwall, if he had not ever known me.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s your fault,” she insisted. _“You_ didn’t do that to him. Other people did. You’re not responsible for the evil that they do.”

He gazed at her unhappily. “You know how it feels,” he whispered. “Whether I did the evil or not, I look at my past and I see a trail of bodies of people, dead because they associated with me. I see death and very little else.”

This was too much. “Then you should look at different parts of your past—and your present,” she said feelingly, rubbing his shoulders. “There is life too! You’re a Healer. You have surely already saved some lives among the refugees... and there will be more to come.”

He was silent, considering that.

“You defended Amaranthine as a Grey Warden, saving the lives of people there too. You saved Justice. You _did,”_ she argued as he winced. “The fact that he still comes out as himself and then turns control back over to you is proof that he didn’t become a demon. He just got exposed to more ideas... to the complexity of emotion. He’s more like the rest of us now, that’s all. You saved him.” She glanced out into the main clinic where Mal still, fortunately, was asleep. “You’ve even _created_ life with me, Anders. There is more in your past than death. You just have to see it!” She gazed at his brown eyes. “I think Justice must be focusing on the dark parts, because it’s his nature to see injustices more strongly than anything else, but _you_ are in there too!”

“I can’t forget them,” he said. “I can’t ignore them. I can’t _lie_ to myself that all I’ve done has been to save lives....”

“No,” she agreed, “but that’s not what you have been forgetting or ignoring.” Daringly, she reached for his cheek to stroke his face. His eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in his breath at her touch. “I’ve been trying to let go of my anger with you and my guilt about the deaths of Father and Bethany,” she whispered, “and it’s helped me to understand... you never had the anger—at least at me—but you did have guilt, and I don’t want it to gnaw at you like this... like mine gnawed at me until it turned me into a ball of rage. You didn’t kill any innocents. Others did that. You’re a good person.”

He was silent, and after a moment she felt his arms envelop her. He continued to suppress sobs, but he was not crying, and she thought that perhaps this was another turning point for them at last.

“Thank you for coming,” he finally said, releasing her. “I’m sorry for disturbing your sleep.”

She suddenly realized that she did not want to return to her lonely clinic bed. This was a small bed, but he was in it. “Do you want me to leave?” she asked, her brows knitting together.

He drew in his breath. “I—no, but I don’t want you to feel obligated....”

“I don’t. I _want_ to be here.” She drew her legs onto the bed and tucked herself under the blanket. Lowering her hands to his waist, she pulled him down with her.

There was not much room on the bed, and they had no choice but to stay cuddled very close, but she liked it—and so did he, though he was surprised that she wanted to go even this far. She nestled herself under his chin, feeling a rush of warmth when he hesitantly—then, in a sudden change, determinedly—wrapped an arm around her back to keep her from rolling away.

He was not wearing his coat, but she still smelled the distinct scent of leather on him, combined with the spicy fragrance of pine— _from the wood in the clinic?—_ and a faint hint of freshly cut green plants, probably mostly elfroot. He gathered his own herbs to make medicines, she thought idly. It was a very soothing combination of scents, similar but not identical to his distinctive fragrance of four years ago. _I could get used to this again,_ she thought, gently stroking circles on his back with her fingers.

He managed to fall into a calm sleep in her arms, which gratified her. _I can still soothe him,_ she thought, enjoying the feel of his chest rising and falling right next to hers. _I can do something for him other than abuse and attack him. I can help him. I can make him feel better...._

This realization was startling to her, and as soon as the thought crossed her mind, it seemed as though a great weight lifted from her. _I have something to offer him,_ she thought. _If I can help him, I can begin to repay him for all that he did for my family. He would probably say that I didn’t owe him anything for that, but I feel that I do, and I have to find some way of giving back to him. If I can do this, then maybe we do have a future._

Before she drifted off to sleep herself, she realized something else. _I am in love with him again._ It was not just that she did love him, in the sense of caring about him. She was “in love.”

_He is still possessed by Justice,_ she thought.  _He always will be. The spirit has not made another appearance, at least a full one, but it is always there. I haven’t had to think about it because it hasn’t shown up, but it has not gone away. I saw a hint of it tonight during his nightmare. Is this something I can live with? Can I even answer that question yet, since I haven’t had to see it in full bloom since that night at the Chantry?_

She decided not to worry about it right now. Cynically she supposed that as long as she and Anders remained in Kirkwall where a mage-hater like Meredith Stannard and weaklings like Viscount Dumar held sway, it was very likely that she would see Justice making an appearance again. What mattered for now was that another barrier was down. They were cuddling in bed. Caitlyn felt a pang at the thought that all of these barriers were already crossed four years ago, but... if they needed to be crossed again, and it seemed that they did, then at least she and Anders were doing that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isabela will be recruited; she just hasn't been yet. And when she does join the group, there will be a wholly separate issue about her... and you can probably make a guess about what that issue is going to be. (Consider the "electricity trick" conversation, and just _how_ Isabela might know about that, and you've got your answer.) Aveline is also going to be more of a factor later. However, Sebastian is _not_ going to be recruited. He'll be around, and Caitlyn will have some business with him, but he won't become a "companion." I admit that the actual reason for this is that I really dislike him, and yet, I don’t want to constantly bash and vilify him in case fans of his are reading this—so better to keep him in the background. The version of him that I got was “self-righteous theocrat who doesn’t get along with anyone in the party,” and theocratic stuff is just a hard no for me. It’s not about his beliefs about the mage issue or his religious devotion in isolation; I like Fenris and Leliana, after all. But I don't think that this Hawke or Anders could handle him after all they've been through.


	16. Cut It Out and Then Restart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your interest and support as always. There’s a nice treat at the end of this chapter!
> 
> Song inspiration is “Shake It Out” by Florence + the Machine.

Anders awoke the next morning to find that he had, at some point in the night, rolled onto his back—but that he had pulled Caitlyn along with him. She was nestled against him, making a pillow of his chest, an arm draped loosely around his waist still. It was very pleasant, and he reflected with a smile that his travels in the Fade really had been much better since she had joined him. He doubted that she would _always_ be able to keep him from having nightmares, but if their presence next to each other decreased the frequency that they both, apparently, suffered, that could only be a good thing.

She yawned herself awake, the arm around his waist rubbing in semiconscious affection. She obviously didn’t intend it to have this effect, but Anders tensed, his jaw set, as he found himself trying _not_ to focus too much on that... he was already beginning to feel himself grow hard at her movement, and this was one thing that he really did not think they were ready for again yet....

Mercifully, she raised her arm from him and stretched awake. As she blinked her vision into focus, she smiled at him. “Good morning,” she said, showing no discomfort or regret whatsoever for spending the night in his bed. That was a good sign.

“Morning,” he responded softly, gazing into her eyes. It had been such a very long time. Even their first shared night in Kirkwall, they had not actually cuddled. He felt a pang at the thought that if the Templars had not taken him away, they might have been waking up together for years. _We would have been married for four years,_ he thought, _officially so, if Malcolm could have found a sympathetic priest, and by the common law if not. We probably would have had a second child and possibly a third._ He suddenly felt sick at the thought that they had had all the children they ever could.

Of late, he was perceiving a new conviction of Justice’s, the spirit’s confidence that its presence was lessening the effects of the Taint, especially since Anders had allowed him houseroom so soon after taking the Joining—before the poison could really take hold. Justice seemed very confident that his Spirit Healing effects could prevent Anders from experiencing the Calling... _another horrible Warden secret that I’ll have to tell her sooner or later,_ he thought, _but I’ll wait until Justice knows for sure that he can do it—or not. Even if he can, he hasn’t been able to keep me from having the Warden nightmares or feeling hungrier than I did before I became a Warden... though I don’t feel quite as hungry as I did before we merged. Justice believes the magical source of the corruption truly is the Black City and that he can block the worst of it as a good spirit of the Fade, but fertility is extremely delicate—like dreaming._ Anders did not hold out much hope that Justice could counter _that_ particular effect, and the spirit was not indicating that to Anders either. Mal was it, then, most likely. The large family he’d hoped to have—and that he believed Caitlyn had wanted someday too—would not happen.

 _I didn’t think I would have anything at all with her until we met again. We can have other things,_ he thought, trying to be positive. _We can wake up together again many times. Hopefully it won’t be too much longer._ He turned to her with a smile on his face. “I know you only brought one change of clothing, but... you do have another home here.” _A real home,_ he thought, _not one that belongs to a profligate, alcoholic uncle._

She raised a hand to his cheek and caressed him gently. “I’m very angry at my uncle still, but I suppose I need to try to make amends with what remains of my family. But... the Deep Roads treasure... once Carver and I recover the Amell manor, if we can of course, you know....” She trailed off awkwardly, concerned that she was making too many assumptions. What if he _wanted_ to stay?

His eyes widened. He was surprised at what she had hinted at, but very pleased.

* * *

They were getting the clinic ready for another day of activity—and Mal was fascinated with a crate of bound, dried herbs—when a knock sounded on the outside door. Anders immediately strode to the entrance, expecting a patient, but when he opened the door, Carver Hawke stood before him.

“Oh,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in. She’s over there.”

Carver was already making a beeline for his sister, who tried her best to suppress a scowl. The scene last night had not been Carver’s fault, and it would be unfair to take it out on him— _unless he is doing Uncle Gamlen’s bidding now and took his side after all,_ she thought balefully.

Carver stood before her. “Mother sent me to say... she _did_ talk with Uncle Gamlen this morning, and he says that he is sorry and that you and Mal are welcome to return home.”

Caitlyn glowered past Carver. _“Are_ we. What about Anders? He’s the one Uncle Gamlen actually ordered out of the house last night, for no reason that I can see other than an act of spite against _me,_ to try to shame me. I was the one who was harsh with him, after all, not Anders. I don’t particularly care to live at a place where my... where Mal’s father is not welcome.”

Anders had looked up again, startled, at Caitlyn’s aborted sentence. He wondered what she had almost said. _Her... what?_ he thought. _What are we right now?_

Carver sighed. “He didn’t say anything about Anders, but Mother put him in his place....”

“That’s hard for me to believe somehow. I hardly see her stand up to him on anything. It’s why _I_ always have to be the ‘bad’ one.”

Anders finally spoke up. “He _is_ your uncle, and your mother and brother live with him, and if he’s sorry—or even if your mother just got him to claim that he is—you should at least speak to him.”

Caitlyn was stunned, and a little hurt, if she had to be honest. He had just said that she had another home. Didn’t he mean it? _He probably means exactly what he just said,_ she tried to reassure herself as she gently pulled Mal away from the herbs and prepared to leave with her dog and her brother. _That’s all that there is to it. He doesn’t want me estranged from my remaining family._

Mal gave his mother a pouty face. “I want to stay with Father,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to go back there.”

She glanced at Anders, asking permission silently. He assented with a nod, then turned to the child. “You’ll have to let me do my work when people come in to be healed,” he said.

Mal nodded at once. “I like watching you work. It’s... int’r’sting.” He struggled a bit with the long word, making both of his parents smile.

Anders spoke up again as Caitlyn and her dog left with Carver. “Lowtown... is better than what I can offer,” he muttered, his face cast down as they were leaving.

This comment seemed very different, and in fact, it seemed like he was taking back his implicit offer of an alternate home. Caitlyn felt her heart sink. _Don’t you want me here?_ she thought. _A safe clinic in Darktown with you is better than a house in the slums of Lowtown with an uncle whose behavior is toxic. Don’t you understand?_

* * *

Leandra was somewhat surprised, and visibly disheartened, that Anders and Mal had not accompanied them. As the young siblings entered the house, she turned with a glare to her brother Gamlen. He was seated in a chair across from her, and in that moment, Caitlyn noticed the stark difference between the two of them in their physical appearance. Both were grey-haired now, but her uncle had the distinct markings on his face of excessive drinking over many years. Her mother had not lived an easy life either, certainly not the life she had expected to lead as a young girl before she had met the Hawkes’ father, but she had followed a relatively healthy lifestyle, and it showed.

 _I would feel sorry for him except that this is entirely his fault and we have suffered for it too,_ she thought as she sat down near her mother and glared at her uncle.

He did not want to talk, but he seemed to understand that he’d better. He cleared his throat. “Er,” he began, “I... I’m glad you came back.”

Caitlyn regarded him coldly, not saying a word.

“I... wanted to say that I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Which part?” she said, ice in her words. “The insults to my child? Ordering Anders out of the house for absolutely no valid reason? The insinuation that your behavior is equivalent to mine, the drinking or the other?”

“All of it,” he muttered. “Especially the parts about the boy. He’s a good lad.”

“You never denied that,” she retorted. “That was not the substance of your insult.”

Gamlen grimaced. “I’m _sorry,_ all right? Your mother talked to me pretty harshly this morning about the sacrifice you and Carver made the past year, and she’s got a point. I’ll try to do better.”

“Hmph.” She scowled at him. “You had better. As for Anders... I can’t imagine that you would think I would... do anything... with him in this cramped little house with everyone nearby. I know why you said it—you wanted to draw a false equivalency between my relationship with him and your constant hiring of prostitutes in front of everyone else, I suppose because I’m a woman—”

“I _said_ I was sorry,” Gamlen snapped, not sounding it. “He can come. He can even spend the night, for all I care. What’s one more person to keep warm?”

All three Hawkes glared harshly at him, but it was Caitlyn again who spoke. “I wouldn’t dream of making you pay for extra coal or wood in the wintertime for someone else,” she barked. “After all, you have much better, more pleasurable ways to spend your coin. With any luck, though, we won’t _be_ here come winter. The Deep Roads expedition is coming up. However, Carver and I haven’t saved up the necessary buy-in yet, so we can’t waste our time here.”

Leandra scowled. “If only we could get the will, perhaps we could prove to the Viscount that....” She broke off.

Gamlen glowered. “I’ve told you, they cut you off. They didn’t leave you anything, and what did you expect, running off with a Fereldan apostate? The house is gone. I’m sorry for burning through it, but it’s done.”

“But the will—”

“If it still exists, it’s in the cellar, if you must know. And since slavers own it, that’s that.”

At that, Carver and Caitlyn shared a private grin which their mother and uncle did not notice. Leandra sighed heavily as her daughter and son rose from their seats once again to head back into the city. There were always vigilante-type crime-fighting jobs to be done, it seemed—which was a harsh indictment of the City Guard, but at least it would fund their treasure hunt.

* * *

“Daisy, your face lights up when you see him,” Varric remarked as Caitlyn and Carver entered the Hanged Man and approached the table that was currently occupied by the dwarf and Merrill.

Caitlyn glanced askance at Carver. Other than Varric himself, Carver was the only “him” currently in the party. Could Merrill....

Carver glowered, but Caitlyn noticed that he took a seat beside Merrill. “Stop teasing her.”

Merrill looked utterly relieved—but Caitlyn did not miss the fact that her brother had stepped to Merrill’s defense. Was something going on? Or, perhaps, did the two of them _want_ something to be going on, but did not know how—or have the nerve—to start anything yet? Caitlyn had tried to stay completely out of her younger brother’s private life, and Bethany’s too while she had lived, but she was relatively sure that Carver had patronized the Blooming Rose, Kirkwall’s brothel, at least once. She felt vaguely sad about the fact that he would choose to learn about intimacy that way rather than by having a relationship, but otherwise, she didn’t care. Anders had done the same, apparently, and he’d turned out all right. If Carver did, he had the courtesy to be discreet and keep it out of their house—which was much more than she could say for their uncle and his nightly companions.

But that was earlier, during their indenture. If her brother was interested in Merrill, and especially if Merrill returned the interest, that was actually rather shocking to Caitlyn. A _mage?_ A blood mage, at that? Carver had such a problem with magic—or so she had thought. He had been so against doing anything to offend the Templars... _but perhaps that was just because he didn’t want them to come down on me,_ she thought in a sudden epiphany. _That might have been the reason all the time, even back in Lothering, rather than actual agreement with them, let alone the most extreme ones. It might always have been family feeling._

Caitlyn was also relieved about the possibility of something between Merrill and her brother because that should thoroughly eliminate the possibility of her own nascent feelings for Merrill becoming more than friendship.

“Hawke,” Merrill spoke up.

Caitlyn glanced at her with a smile. “You can call me Caitlyn,” she said.

“Oh,” Merrill said innocently. “I don’t know much about human customs. I thought that your given name was only for your family, like your brother. He is the only one who calls you by it. Varric and Fenris call you Hawke.”

“I’ve told them they can call me by my given name too,” she said. “They prefer ‘Hawke.’ I mean... you can say Hawke too, if you really want to, but you don’t have to. Anders calls me by my given name,” she replied gently.

“Oh, yes, he does,” Merrill said. “I’m sorry; I forgot. But he’s special too... isn’t he?” she said uncertainly, her brows knitting at the last.

Caitlyn sighed. Was he? She certainly wanted him to be.... “Yes, Merrill, we... have had something special in the past, and maybe in the future too. But all of you are my friends. I just wanted you to know that you can call me Caitlyn if you want to.”

“All right,” Merrill said. “I may do that.” She gazed at the table for a moment before continuing, changing the subject as she did. “He is in his clinic a lot, helping the refugees. There is suffering in the alienage too... but many of the elves there don’t trust magic.” She sighed sadly. “It is difficult for me to live there. I don’t understand how my people can have lost so much of their lore, their history, that they look upon a mage with fear....”

Caitlyn wondered if this was the right time, but she really didn’t think anything good could come of Merrill’s consorting with a demon, and she wanted to discourage it to the extent possible. “If they knew what you were doing with your magic, that wouldn’t help your case,” she said. “I don’t think we mages should have to meet an impossible standard, but demons actually _are_ dangerous.”

Merrill scowled. “You’re like _him—_ and how is his Justice any different?”

Caitlyn had no good answer for that. “Justice is a positive spirit,” she said, sounding rote even to herself.

The young elf harrumphed. “What is wrong with pride? Why is it ‘negative’? If we had no pride, we would do... well, anything!”

Caitlyn definitely didn’t have a good answer for that. “Maybe this particular... spirit... is misnamed,” she offered. “Maybe instead of pride, it is actually a spirit of arrogance—which would definitely be a demon.”

“Like a demon of _vengeance?”_ Merrill retorted. “I _know_ he is dangerous. I am wary in the Fade. I wonder if Anders is.”

Carver snickered at that.

Caitlyn sighed heavily. This conversation was rapidly going south, and she hadn’t wanted that to happen. “Anders is well aware of the risks,” she finally said. “He has experienced what Justice is capable of when he... they... are angry and feeling dark and vengeful. He is _concerned_ for you, Merrill. That’s all it is. We both are.”

Varric cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with this entire discussion of demons, spirits, magic, and the Fade, since it was not a place for dwarves. “Right, then,” he began to say.

Merrill interrupted him. “Haw—Caitlyn,” she corrected herself, though the name felt awkward on her tongue, “I do understand. I know that’s why he is so judgmental of this. He is a compassionate person, and he does know a lot of interesting things about magic and the Fade.”

In spite of everything, Caitlyn smiled faintly.

“He loves you very much, you know,” Merrill continued innocently. “Why are you not with him again?”

Varric was startled. “Uh, Daisy...” he began to say.

“Oh, no,” she said at once, her face falling. “I said something foolish again, didn’t I?”

“No!” Caitlyn assured her at once. “Not at all! You... pose a good question.”

Merrill seemed unconvinced, especially when the conversation subsided awkwardly. Carver, to his credit, tried to lessen Merrill’s obvious discomfort by bringing up a discussion of smithing with Dalish ironbark, which Caitlyn rapidly found herself unable to follow. Her mind was focused on Merrill’s observation and question, in any case. _How could she have noticed, of all people? She doesn’t even seem able to find her way around the city. She misses so many things. How could she notice that? Or... is she seeing what she wants to see, based on what she knows of the past and perhaps what Carver has told her?_

 _But if she’s right, she asks a good question. Why am I not with him? What am I waiting for? Must I learn if I can actually keep my promise about angry outbursts first?_ As soon as she thought this, she realized that that was a large part of it. She didn’t want to become too emotionally involved again until she was certain that she wouldn’t lose it all by her own doing.

 _That’s... incredibly depressing,_ she realized glumly. _I have to sort this out. If I take too long, I might lose him anyway._

The door to the Hanged Man swung open, and Fenris walked in. Merrill and Carver subsided as he approached them, and Varric, mercifully, detected the unhappy mood swing of the woman seated across from him. He spoke up just as the male elf was approaching their table.

“So,” Varric said, “what actually brings you here today? Looking for more jobs to do?”

Caitlyn was relieved of the change of subject. “We actually have a task planned for tonight. We are going to clear out a gang of slavers that ‘own’ my mother’s family estate in Hightown, in the hopes that they haven’t destroyed my grandfather Amell’s will.”

“You know,” Varric remarked, “I have my own thoughts about family estates, but clearing out a band of slavers... that sounds like fun, at least.”

Fenris sat down at the table. He glowered at the mention of slavers, but he seemed interested as well, if for vicarious revenge on his former master.

“What about Blondie?” Varric asked.

Caitlyn shook her head; she had already decided about that. “I’ve let Mal stay with Anders today,” she said, “and I don’t think Anders should be involved in this. If....” She struggled with the words, but it _was_ possible, and it was best to speak of it. “If something happened to Carver and me, Mal would at least still have his father.”

“Well, that’s grim,” Varric replied.

“But possible,” Fenris said darkly. “I... do not get along with Anders... but Hawke is right about this. The child should not be in danger of losing his entire family save his grandmother. Not for something like this.” His lips pursed in contempt; apparently Mal’s great-uncle did not warrant mentioning. Caitlyn was mildly amused by that. _At least all my companions agree about Gamlen!_

At this, loud sounds came from elsewhere in the pub. Caitlyn and her companions whirled around, only to see a gang threatening a scantily dressed woman—but before any of them could rush to the woman’s defense, it became perfectly obvious that she was more than capable of defending herself. She drew a brutally sharp blade from her back and proceeded, to the astonishment of everyone at the Hawkes’ table, to make short work of her tormentors.

With a salacious grin on her face, she sheathed her blade and turned around, clearly aware that she had had a gawking audience. Her honey-colored eyes seemed to fix upon Fenris most of all, but she took in everyone at the table as she sauntered over.

“Greetings,” she said in a sultry voice. Caitlyn tried not to stare at her muscular tan-skinned body, but she was wearing very little clothing and _no_ pants, from the looks of it. “I’m Isabela—previously _Captain_ Isabela, but, sadly, without a ship, that title rings a little hollow.” She eyed them all a bit more, her gaze settling upon Caitlyn. “You shouldn’t stare, honey.”

Caitlyn was completely taken aback. “I’m not staring!” she protested. Maker, she was glad Anders wasn’t here right now. She honestly was not interested in this woman, but he was so inclined toward jealousy lately, he _would not_ have needed to hear Isabela’s charge.

Isabela grinned. “You’re lucky you’re staring at _me._ Others would take it as rather more than ‘approval,’ dear. You’re nothing but tits and ass to the men in this place, and they won’t hesitate to grab at both.”

Caitlyn glowered back at the other woman. “I am a Fereldan native, with a small child, and I lived in Kirkwall for a _year_ before my son’s father—whom I believed dead—turned up again. You can only imagine what these swine thought of me because of that. I’m _very_ well aware of what some of these ‘men’ are like to certain women.” She took a hard pull from her flagon, which she set down firmly on the tabletop. “The first and only batch to try it didn’t live to tell the tale.”

“It’s true,” Carver grunted in defense of his sister.

Isabela’s eyebrows flew up high. “I _do_ like a woman who can take care of herself,” she remarked. She pulled up a chair at their table, sat down, and leaned forward on the table conspiratorially. “Well. Perhaps you are just what I’m looking for to solve a little problem I have.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Maker, can’t anyone fix their own lives around here?” she muttered. She had business— _family_ business—in Hightown tonight that was going to be risky enough.

“You haven’t heard me out. There’s excitement to be had—or coin.”

 _That might change things,_ Caitlyn thought. If the slavers had destroyed the Amell family will, or if it did indeed show that the estate had been left to Uncle Gamlen, then she and Carver would definitely need the coin to get into the Deep Roads expedition—and they were still fifteen gold short. “All right—what kind of ‘help’ are we talking about?”

“Someone from my past has been pestering me. I’ve arranged for a duel, but I don’t trust him to play fair. I need someone to watch my back.”

“That’s it?”

Isabela nodded. “No more, no less. His name is Hayder, and we worked together in Antiva. He’s been asking about me all over town, and I thought I’d get it over with and meet him face-to-face. We’ve arranged to meet in Hightown.”

“And you want me to be your second?”

The captain nodded again. “That’s it, sweetie.”

“I think I can manage that,” Caitlyn said, considering. “My brother and I, and Varric and Fenris here”—she nodded to the dwarf and elf—have business in Hightown tonight anyway.” She gazed at Isabela with a menacing smile. “There had _better_ be coin.”

* * *

After a _very_ exciting night, Carver and Caitlyn emerged from the Amell cellar into the tunnel of Darktown feeling both deflated and hopeful—and very much in need of healing. Merrill had gone back to the alienage after meeting them at the Hanged Man and had not participated in the duel or the raid, and Fenris had returned to his former master’s mansion, not wanting to have anything to do with Anders even as a Healer, but the others were approaching the clinic.

“It’s fortunate that Anders’ clinic is right here, so close to the basement entrance,” Caitlyn remarked. “It’s like it was meant to be.” She smiled in spite of her wounds. If they did get the family manor back, Anders could live with them and go to work in his clinic very easily—and safely.

The first fight had been with Isabela’s contact and his gang, a brutal fight that had occurred after a chase that led all over Hightown—and, to Fenris’s dismay, had involved the man Hayder’s confession that a “shipment” Isabela had abandoned had been, in fact, a shipment of captives who had thought they were merely escaping the Blight but were to be sold into slavery. Fenris had fought harder than usual when he learned this detail, and he seemed to respect Isabela very much for refusing to be a part of a slaving operation once she learned about it.

 _My own uncle sold us as indentured servants,_ Caitlyn thought bitterly, _but it seems that we were lucky. How many Fereldans bought passage thinking that they would be safe from darkspawn, but had actually signed up with Tevinter slave ships? And those who do live free mostly live in Darktown. We’re lucky to live in Lowtown with very reasonable hopes of Hightown soon. We’re incredibly lucky._

After that, everyone’s blood had been hot, and they had been more than ready to take on the gang of slavers, including a slaver blood mage, who had occupied the Amell family estate. Caitlyn had even persuaded Isabela to join them, favor-for-favor, and for some reason the pirate woman had done so. They had taken care of the gang, and Fenris seemed to be a bit more tolerant of Caitlyn’s magic once he saw it used directly against a slaver mage. For one thing, the others in the group, none of whom had magic, were struggling against the mage, whereas she could meet him as an equal—and whether Fenris was ready to admit that openly or not, he seemed to realize it. She was pleased about that. Showing the elf, and others who thought like him, that magic was not inherently evil or corrupting, but was instead good or bad depending on what a mage used it for, was one of her goals.

They had made some coin from their adventures, both from looting Isabela’s enemies and from the stash that the slavers had kept in the Amell house—but the real _coup de grace,_ to use the Orlesian phrase, was the Amell will.

 _The house was never Uncle Gamlen’s. Grandfather Amell forgave Mother and left it to her after all,_ Caitlyn thought. _We may not have to go to the Deep Roads to recover it at all, if she can successfully petition the Viscount to restore her property._

Her temporary optimism was checked by the consideration that the wait time for an audience with Viscount Dumar was long and growing longer by the day, and that was for the nobles and genteel folk of Hightown, let alone anyone else. But it was something. _If nothing else, it’s a piece of paper I can shove down the throat of a sodden arsehole the next time he lies to us about being the heir or comes home drunk or brings in a strange woman._

She was at Anders’ door, and it was quite late, so she made sure to knock gently in case Mal was asleep—as he ought to be. He opened it, and in the next moment, he gaped in shock and disapproval of their appearance.

“What in the Maker’s name have you been doing?” he exclaimed, ushering the entire party into his clinic. “This is _blood!”_

“It’s not all mine,” Caitlyn offered as he began to clean and heal her. She and Isabela had taken the worst beating, since Carver wore armor and Varric was naturally tougher as a dwarf.

He tutted and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to go through this to earn coin for the ‘privilege’ of going into the bloody Deep Roads. Caitlyn,” he said, his tone suddenly very serious, “you don’t have to do this. You have another home. I said that this morning and I meant it. You and Mal could live here, with me. It’s not much, and your uncle’s house is nicer, but... it’s an option.”

Her heart soared suddenly. She had almost forgotten about her uncertainty regarding their parting conversation that morning. However—

“It’s a long story, but most of these wounds, I got from killing the Tevinter slavers who were occupying my mother’s family home,” she said, “and Carver and I learned after clearing them out that it was never my uncle’s at all.”

Anders stopped cleaning her arm and stared at her. “You mean....”

“My grandfather Amell left it to my mother after all,” she said bitterly. “My uncle _squatted_ on it for years and blew through the coin, gambling, drinking, and whoring—and it _wasn’t even his!”_

Anders shook his head in silent disgust.

“And I do appreciate your offer,” she said sincerely, “and... we’ll see... I may have to take you up on it if Uncle Gamlen reacts badly to our discovery that he is a _liar.”_

“And a thief,” Carver muttered.

“But,” she continued, “we still need to get the house back. Carver probably doesn’t want to live here, nor does my mother. And it should be ours. In fact... there is an entrance to the cellar of it practically right above our heads.”

“I certainly _don’t_ want to live here,” Carver said under his breath, but everyone present heard.

Anders ignored that, focusing instead on what she had said. “Really? A shortcut? That’s... convenient....” He cast a blue healing spell at her, then heaved his breath. “There. Good as new.” He gazed tenderly at her, and suddenly, it was all that she could do not to take his face in her hands and kiss him in front of everyone. His breath hitched in his chest, and her heart soared again. Was he about to actually do it? The others were here, but she found that she didn’t care. She moved slightly closer—

Isabela had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire conversation, but at the most inopportune time possible, she burst out at last. “I know you!” she exclaimed to Anders.

His focus was lost as he shifted his gaze to her. His brow furrowed in thought.

Isabela licked her lips in an unmistakably salacious way. “You’re the Fereldan Grey Warden that Lady Cousland sent here. Poor dear... never had a chance of involving my Zevran, since she only likes women, but she, Leliana, and I could’ve had _such_ a good time—”

 _“What?”_ Caitlyn burst out, utterly shocked at what the pirate was implying. She had made peace with Leliana’s committed relationship with Elissa Cousland a year ago, but what Isabela was hinting at was very different—though it sounded as if it had only been a proposition on Isabela’s part. Varric also looked very surprised—and very interested. Caitlyn wondered for a moment if he would take down this bit of spicy gossip for a future story.

Isabela chuckled. “Unfortunately, nothing happened in that department,” she said. “Not for my lack of trying, mind.” She eyed Anders as if he were a piece of meat. “This hot mage is a different matter, though.”

Anders suddenly looked horrified for Caitlyn’s sake, as recognition dawned on him. Varric whistled and began to back away slowly. Carver was frozen in place.

“The Pearl. Denerim,” Isabela said, staring at him in an unmistakably hungry way. “9:26, right? I think 9:26. I was there again the year of the Blight, when I met our sexy Hero, but I don’t think it was that recent.” She licked her lips again. “You’re the runaway mage who could do that electricity thing, right?”

Anders was struck dumb. He glanced sideways at Caitlyn, swallowing hard, hoping to the Maker and all the good spirits that she wouldn’t set loose a firestorm and burn the clinic down around their ears. Carver, who had finally figured the situation out, did not seem quite so confident. He began to step backwards out of the clinic, followed by Varric.

“What are you saying?” Caitlyn finally got out, her voice shaky. She remembered “the electricity thing.” He had not done it every time they had made love, but she had always enjoyed it when he had. To think of him doing it for anyone else—

“9:26,” he burst out, eyes wide, pleading silently to her. _“Please,_ Caitlyn. She said 9:26. We met in Wintermarch 9:27.”

Isabela glanced from Anders to Caitlyn. “Ohhh,” she said. “I see.” She nodded knowingly at Caitlyn. “He’s your child’s father.”

 _He said he had only fooled around with other Circle mages—though who knows what he and Karl got up to—though I suppose I don’t have a right to complain about that, no matter what it was—and that he had only actually slept with prostitutes in the Pearl... except for one person. Her? How could it be? What are the odds? How in the Maker’s name is this possible?_ she thought in misery.

“You weren’t _listening?”_ she burst out in fury at the pirate. “What do you _think_ it meant when he said I could live here with my child?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t actually paying attention,” Isabela said, winking pointedly. “You have to understand, right? Don’t worry, sweetcakes—I’m not trying to steal him. I don’t much like being tied down at all. And I’m always happy to share, if you like.”

To Caitlyn’s infinite relief, it was Anders who replied. “No,” he said firmly, placing a hand around her waist. “We don’t ‘share.’”

Isabela shrugged, visibly disappointed, but only mildly so. “A pity, but not everyone can do it, of course. I don’t want to break up couples. I do have some ethics.” She extended her wounded arm to Anders. “Now... _Healer..._ if you will?” she said, in a determined attempt at professionalism.

Anders sucked in his breath and began to tend to Isabela’s wounds. Caitlyn could hardly stand to look, even though she knew this was unfair—Isabela did have a bad gash, and it was only right for a Healer to treat it.

 _I knew I wasn’t his first,_ she tried to tell herself. _It didn’t bother me at the time, either. He met her before he met me—so it wasn’t cheating. If he ever actually cheated on me, then I cheated on him too. Karl and Leliana are wholly separate issues from this. What he had with her was one night, according to his own words—and what she implies too. It meant nothing. There is no threat here._

 _It didn’t bother me four years ago,_ she thought. _It truly didn’t. I told him something about being glad that he_ didn’t _have a meaningful relationship as a runaway apostate, since he avoided them for fear of breaking someone’s heart. It seemed to me to be another sign of his compassionate, honest nature. I meant what I said. It didn’t bother me then. Why does it bother me now?_

She knew the answer as soon as she had the thought. _Because I haven’t had to interact regularly with any other partner of his,_ she thought. _Karl died, and his other partners—full partners—were Denerim prostitutes, apparently, except for her. It’s different to have to consider actually interacting with somebody who...._ She swallowed bile. _Who knows him as intimately as I do._

 _No one does, though,_ she told herself to attempt to calm her stormy emotions. _Nobody else has been intimate with him as much as I have._ She wondered, for a brief moment, just how long Anders and Karl had been together before the Circle authorities sent Karl to Kirkwall, and then adjusted her thoughts. _Isabela sure as the Void hasn’t. She had one night. I had four months of being lovers with him. I bore his child. He was going to propose marriage to me if the Templars hadn’t caught him... and maybe.... But no matter what comes of that, I am the one he loves. He told me that he still does, that he always did._

“Caitlyn?” Anders asked, breaking her out of her own thoughts. She blinked and gazed around the clinic. Her brother and Varric were standing in the threshold of the door as if they thought they might need to make a quick exit. She realized in a flash why they apparently thought that, and it shamed her—did they really think she had no more control over her emotions than that? Her gaze shifted to Isabela, who was standing aside and, to her credit, looking somewhat sheepish.

“I... need to go home,” she said. “Mal... he’s asleep?”

Anders nodded, looking extremely pained. “I put him in my bed. Come.” He took her hand, rubbing circles on her palm soothingly, as he escorted her into the nook where he slept. He pulled back the cladding and let them inside, where—sure enough—the small child dozed in his father’s bed.

He gazed at her desperately. “Caitlyn,” he said, “please—you must have remembered—”

“Yes, I did,” she said crisply, stroking Mal’s soft feathery strawberry blond hair. She gazed at Anders. “I knew at the time, and that genuinely did not matter to me, any more than it mattered to you that you _were_ my first... but it’s different to have to see somebody regularly.” _Maybe especially someone as salacious and blatantly sexual as she is,_ Caitlyn thought. _How can I compete with that? She says she won’t interfere with couples, but what if we don’t actually become a couple again quickly enough? What if she sees an opening and takes it—and he decides that he would rather have someone who clearly, without a doubt, wants him, than someone who might lash out and throw a fireball at him in a fit of pique—someone he had to insist make a promise not to say cruel things to him?_

He looked miserable and reached for her arms. “It meant nothing,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper, far too low for Isabela to overhear outside this little room. “And I’ve grown since then. I want more.” His gaze hardened. “I’ll make sure she takes no for an answer if it comes up again. I won’t tolerate her making you feel so unhappy.”

“Don’t be ugly to her,” Caitlyn urged him. She didn’t want Anders to be vicious to Isabela. As he had pointed out in the main room of the clinic, his... encounter... with her had happened before he even met Caitlyn, and both of them had apparently been completely honest with each other about what it was. He was being honest with Caitlyn herself, now, too. She didn’t want him to punish Isabela for something that, at the time, had been done in good faith. She didn’t want him to allow Isabela’s advances, either, even if he never responded to them, but she knew she would derive no pleasure from seeing him be hateful to Isabela. She just wanted him to express his preference by shutting Isabela down and favoring _her._ She thought with pain of the aborted kiss this very evening.

“I won’t,” he assured her, “but I won’t let her say these things if they hurt you.”

“I just hate the thought of her knowing about something that _we_ did together,” she said in a heated whisper. “Something that I thought was just for me.”

He gazed hard at her, desire suddenly blaring from his eyes. The room, already quite small, suddenly seemed even smaller and stuffier to Caitlyn. “Then I’ll have to think of something new,” he hissed. “Something that _nobody_ else knows about.” For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of bluish-white behind his eyes, but Justice retreated as quickly as he had appeared. The spirit was there just long enough to make Caitlyn’s heart race in a strange kind of desire that she did not understand, but equally did not question.

She sucked in her breath hard through her nostrils as he stared at her as intensely as he ever had. In the next fraction of a second, he had—mercifully—closed the distance between them.

His hands gripped her waist tightly, and then suddenly, warmth—warmth, pressure, and intense tactile sensations as Anders pressed against her down to the hips. Caitlyn gasped for a moment, but in the very next, he had sealed her lips with his own. One of his hands stroked up her back rapidly, settling on the back of her neck, his fingers finding their way into her vermilion hair.

He was devouring her, punctuating the near-sucking motion with gentle nips on her lips and tongue. “Only you,” he murmured, briefly breaking the kiss.

She finally regained control of her body and responded at last to his motions by gripping fistfuls of his blond hair and tugging. He let out a growl at that, pushing her against the wall roughly as he intensified his kiss and nipped her lower lip hard enough to sting.

She gasped as they finally broke apart. Her lips seemed to be swollen, but as she licked them, she tasted no blood. His eyes gleamed at the act, but he did not react again except to breathe heavily. “Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?” he said, smirking.

A hard thrum of desire rocked her at his words—but she somehow managed to keep her head. “I do want to—but I need to tell Mother what we learned.”

“Let your brother do it.”

She was actually tempted, but she restrained herself. “Maker knows what he’ll say to Mother about me if I don’t go,” she said. “I should be there for this. It’s important.” She glanced at their sleeping child, then back at him. “You can come too if you want.”

He considered for a moment before nodding. “All right. We’ll all go together.”

She laughed happily. “As we should.”

He leaned forward again, briefly touching her lips with his own. She thought, wildly, about the fact that this was exactly how their first and second kisses had been, years ago—an aggressive, rough, very unchaste first one, followed by a sweet, innocent second one. The fact that this had not changed—that he still kissed this way—made her heart soar.

She lifted up Mal from the bed, waking him, but he closed his eyes and settled down again in his mother’s arms. As the three of them stepped out of the tiny little room, she found that she hardly noticed the others, even Isabela.

 _He wants me,_ she thought joyfully. _He still really does want me! It’s going to happen! And—Maker!—I actually kept my promise. This was another moment of jealousy, but I kept my temper and wasn’t cruel or unfair to him._ She was delighted at this realization; it gave her hope that she really could keep her word.

He placed his hand possessively around her waist as they passed the others, a pointed gesture directed at Isabela, who merely smiled tolerantly.

The group dispersed once they reached the surface, with Varric and Isabela heading toward the Hanged Man while the others headed for the residential area of Lowtown where Gamlen lived. Carver stepped ahead to give them privacy, which Caitlyn rather appreciated, and which surprised her. Perhaps he really did respect their relationship.

Anders took advantage immediately. “This is going to sound absurd, but a small part of me has been... afraid this would all disappear,” he said quietly, shivering. “Every time you leave, every time you step outside the door of the clinic, or any building I am in, I don’t want to let you go. That same part of me is terrified I’ll never see you again.” His gaze was intense, desperate, needy.

She glanced at him. “I’ve... had a similar thing happen, watching you walk out a door without me.” _Because it did happen once before,_ she thought, _and my mind cannot let go of that. I wonder if we ever truly will let go of this fear, this trauma._ She could not embrace him with Mal in her arms, but she hoped he understood that she wanted to.

“You’re in more danger now,” he said, his voice still quiet. “I am a Grey Warden. They aren’t allowed to interfere with me. You’re an apostate, in the most apostate-unfriendly city in Thedas except Tantervale.”

She gazed into his eyes. “I give you permission to do whatever you must if I’m threatened.”

He nodded. “I will. I _won’t_ let them hurt us again.”

“We’ll fix it,” she said. “We’ll make it right for others of our kind.”

He nodded again. “Someday.” Impulsively, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Now, let’s show that will to your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polyamorous Hawke (or kinky Hawke who’s into threesomes) is something of a trope, but this one is clearly too prone to jealousy and possessiveness. I’m also writing romanced Anders along those lines, though not as aggro about it. I think the dialogue you get from him if you’re with him and flirt with certain other people can support this. Of course, that does not mean that they couldn’t be into _other_ kinks! Hawke just hasn’t had the chance to explore that in much depth yet; it’s been limited to mutual magic play and very mild dom talk. There very well could be more once they have some real privacy. There is a _certain_ dialogue in the dungeon of Duke Prosper’s chateau that IMO is canon that they’re into some kinky stuff.


	17. Home Is Where Heartache Isn’t

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the interest and support for this story! Before I began it, I didn’t expect it to be more than 125,000 or so words, but… it’s already passed that point because I write 8,000-word chapters most of the time! Then there’s the sequel, which might be just as long as this one turns out to be, but I can’t say for sure yet.
> 
> I apologize for one thing about this chapter, namely that it doesn’t contain what you were probably hoping it would. That’s coming, though!
> 
> I’m introducing an AU mini-plot about the house, Gamlen’s behavior, and Meredith’s influence on Dumar in this chapter, as you will see.

The group marched into the house together. Caitlyn made sure to place Mal on his pallet and close the bedroom door behind her so that he could sleep, but that already seemed in danger. It appeared to her as if her mother and her uncle had been arguing again; her mother looked defeated and near tears, while Gamlen glowered at her. A surge of anger filled her at the sight, and any possibility of being diplomatic about the will vanished. Yes, this might come to shouting....

“Well,” she said, her voice cold, “we just got back from the family estate, after recovering Grandfather’s will, and”—she gazed at her uncle with contempt—“it contains some very interesting information.” She nodded to her brother, who stormed over to their mother and handed the document to her.

Leandra unrolled the scroll and began to read it. When she reached the pertinent parts, her face curdled into a combination of fury and melancholy.

“They didn’t die angry at me,” she murmured, her eyes momentarily brimming with tears, but only briefly. She whirled on her brother with a vengeance. “They left it to me—and _you_ burned through it after they were gone!”

Caitlyn could hardly believe her eyes. _This_ was her mother, actually taking on Gamlen?

He, for his part, looked like the child with his hands in the cookie jar. He could not dispute the contents of the will or her charge against him, so instead, he turned on his niece and nephew. “You went in there and—what? Murdered a bunch of people to get it, I’d bet! What am I going to do now if the City Guard come down on us all—or the Templars?” he added with a glare at Caitlyn and Anders.

Carver balled his fists, ready to have it out once and for all. A small flare formed in Caitlyn’s right hand and vanished into the air. “That is one of the most transparent attempts to deflect guilt that I have ever seen,” she replied to him. “The people in there, as you pointed out earlier, were a slaver gang. You think that the good folk of Hightown will complain to the guard about the ‘murder’ of their benevolent, harmless neighbors?” She stormed ahead until she was inches away from him and jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “You can have nothing to say for yourself now. You _stole_ Mother’s home. The least you can do is be silent about it and accept that we’ve found you out!” Furiously, she sneered at him, then tried to still her rage as she addressed her mother. “Perhaps you can petition for an audience with the Viscount now,” she suggested. “Request in writing an audience with him where you could present him with the will and ask for the house and title, at least, to be reinstated.” She gave another incensed glare to her uncle. “The rest of the fortune can’t be recovered, of course, but you might at least be able to have the house.”

Still stunned from the contents of the will, Leandra waited a moment before nodding, looking overwhelmed. “Yes,” she said, her voice taking on a tone of purpose and resolve that Caitlyn had rarely heard from her before. “You’re right. I should do that.”

Gamlen’s attempt to change the subject and start a fight with Caitlyn, Carver, and Anders—since he obviously believed Anders to have been part of the raid—was already forgotten. He had never looked so sheepish and diminished in his niece’s eyes, and she was thrilled.

 _I would have gone back to Anders’ clinic,_ she thought, recalling that kiss and the underlying promise of his saucy request for her to stay the night, _but he won’t have the pleasure of driving me out of this house tonight._ She stole a glance at Anders. He looked mildly dashed that she seemed set on staying here tonight, but he was also visibly pleased for her family.

Feeling bold, she took Anders’ hand. “Would you stay the night?” she asked him, gazing into his eyes. She did mean the devotion implied in her body language, but she also wanted to flaunt her affections before her uncle, who had had such a problem with them.

 _I wanted her badly,_ he thought for a second, _and we can’t take each other here... but I can control myself._ “Of course, love,” he replied.

Gamlen did not dare comment, though he was visibly irritated at the territory game that his niece was playing. Leandra heard the last word and her face lit up, an expression that broadened even more when the young couple shared another sweet, if brief, kiss in front of everyone.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Are you truly back together now?”

Anders tightened his grip around her waist and smiled at Leandra. “We are.” He gazed at Caitlyn, brows quirked. “Aren’t we? I haven’t presumed too much, have I?” he teased her.

She laughed and wrapped her own arms loosely around him. “Yes we are, and incidentally, you haven’t presumed _enough.”_

She was not actually sure what, specifically, she meant by that, if she meant anything specific at all, but from the way Anders’ eyes popped open in surprise, it was clear what meaning _he_ took from it—and he was shocked that she would hint at that in front of her relatives.

Leandra completely missed the salacious interpretation of her daughter’s words, however. She was manifestly delighted at the news.

So was Caitlyn. She realized, with some surprise—she had almost forgotten what this was like—that she was feeling happy again, and not just about the possibility of the fine house. That helped, quite a bit, but ultimately it was just the possible culmination of something she had planned soberly for a year. She was happy mostly because it made her happy to be with Anders. It even... made her less angry, she realized, or at least, less filled with unfocused anger or anger directed at comparatively petty slights. Her sense of rage— _injustice,_ she thought wryly—at the system that had hurt them both would never go away, but that was different, and it did not threaten her relationship with him or her happiness. Having this with him again helped to calm her anger about lesser things. _We really will raise our child together as well,_ she thought. _It was not too late for Mal to grow up seeing what I saw with my own parents, and he will have that. And if I have made Anders happy by being with him, being affectionate to him, supporting him, teaming up with him for our people, then that gives me joy too._

For the first time since she had come to Kirkwall, it truly seemed that things were beginning to turn around. After a very subdued late-night meal and dips in the washtub for the three who had been out, she was ready for sleep. She pulled Anders onto the pallet and nestled close to him that night, rubbing his back and running her fingers through his hair to lull him to sleep and make sure he knew how much she cared for him. It seemed to her that her unwarranted anger at him really had dissipated, and what had replaced it was not a crippling guilt that would block the relationship, but a desire to make it up to him—her own mistreatment, but also, the suffering he had endured for so long.

Beside her—cuddling her—he understood what she was doing and correctly guessed her reasons. It _was_ wonderful to have her next to him as he slept once again, and to know that they had a future after all. Maker help him, but it was also nice just to have the warm body of someone he cared for next to him to cuddle through the night. There had been nobody since Karl, and he had realized that it was also thus for her—possibly, in her case, even longer, unless she had let Leliana spend the night in the Hawke cabin. It was all very pleasant—but on this particular night, Anders had to try not to let it become torture instead. He had wanted her, back in the clinic. He had meant for her to stay the night, and for the two of them to have become lovers again. If he focused too hard on what had _not_ happened, their cuddling would become torturous.

The occasional allusions of the other Wardens to “Warden stamina” in bed were alien to him thus far. He was also rather skeptical, since Oghren had been the one who made that particular reference most of the time—but Nathaniel Howe had once chimed in that there seemed to be something to it, so Anders could not dismiss it altogether. However, it wasn’t something he had had the chance to experience. He hadn’t thought about it much at the time; his days in Amaranthine serving the Wardens were a blur of depression, duty, fighting, and survival—physical and emotional—and desire had not had any space to breathe in that mix. Even if he had wanted to pursue one-night lovers or even outright sex-for-hire in Amaranthine, which he simply could not while his mind was fixed upon reuniting with Caitlyn and then—at the last—Karl, he doubted he could have “performed” well. Depression above all had killed that drive for him at the time... but that was different now, and he was now rather interested in finding out if Grey Wardens really did have extra stamina between the sheets. She would like it if he did, wouldn’t she? He hoped so.

 _Not tonight, though,_ he told himself, trying to still these thoughts. He could not act on them here, so it was best not to stir them up. He and Caitlyn were together now; they would have other opportunities.

* * *

Leandra sent a formal request for an audience with Viscount Dumar the following day. No one expected to hear back from him immediately, and in any case, other matters soon consumed Caitlyn and her companions—much to Anders’ dismay. These matters kept her from having any time to even talk about moving in with him again.

Caitlyn had urged Merrill to act as a leader in the elven alienage, rather than to seclude herself in her house with her cursed mirror and blood magic. Part of it was to keep her busy with something other than chatting with a pride demon for advice on repairing the mirror, but she also really did think that her friend should do this for the other elves. Before she was exiled from her clan, she had been training to be a leader, a Keeper. She should do this, although her “clan” would now be different—and furthermore, the more Caitlyn saw of the alienage, the more appalled she became. Poverty and unemployment were just as widespread there as they were among the Fereldan refugees, and apparently for the same reason: Kirkwall bigotry against them rather than any actual deficiency in their abilities. The Chantry did have collections for the poor, or so it claimed—it certainly solicited coin that allegedly was for the poor—but Caitlyn had never spoken to a single Fereldan _or_ elf who had ever received any charity from the Kirkwall Chantry. The reason that the shopkeeper Lirene had given her, bitterly, was not that the Grand Cleric didn’t care, but that she was a very weak person who allowed a small group of powerful people in the city to bully her and self-righteously consoled herself that it was holier to be meek than combative. It was worse than exasperating, and Caitlyn privately resolved after hearing it that once she became a Hawke of Hightown, she would lobby hard for a replacement Grand Cleric once she knew who might be a possibility and she had a candidate she could live with.

For now, Merrill was her eyes and ears in the alienage. It was a good idea, and Caitlyn was glad she had tasked her friend with this once Merrill reported that there had been a couple of elves who had expressed interest in the Qunari occupying a compound in the Docks district, and specifically, who had the idea their lives might be better off under the Qun. Caitlyn had her own opinions of the Qun philosophy and specifically the Qunari implementation of it in their homeland, and only one opinion of hers was charitable. It was good to hold that everyone deserved work that was well-suited to their abilities, she had to acknowledge—but in practice, they did not follow that ideal. Mages among the Qunari were chained around the neck, their mouths sewn shut, the horns on their heads that their race usually had sawed off. They were not educated or allowed to do any practical magic or healing, but were merely used as blunt-force weapons in battle. It was almost as bad as the Rite of Tranquility, and worse in some ways, because even the Tranquil could read, study, manage shops, and craft with raw lyrium. The very name for mages in the Qunari language meant “dangerous thing,” illustrating that they were seen as _things_ and not people. _Then_ there were the Qunari beliefs that women should not fight, that it was all right for the state to designate certain women for mandatory breeding—state-enforced rape, in her opinion—and that families and romantic love were low and base, not allowed in the Qunari homeland. No—the Qun had absolutely nothing to offer Caitlyn or anyone like her, and she was glad that Merrill was keeping an eye on those who might be enticed by it, since there was a contingent of Qunari residing in the city for some unknown reason. Caitlyn had urged Merrill to counsel the elves against it, too, emphasizing the Qun’s prohibition on marriage and family, since the alienage elves feared magic and might not be swayed by that argument. For now, she hoped that Merrill’s influence would improve alienage life at least somewhat. She had urged Anders to teach the elf the basic healing spells if the elves did not feel comfortable venturing into Darktown to see him.

Merrill was also keeping an eye on other matters. She had come to Caitlyn with news that an elven woman was harboring her apostate mage son Feynriel—who was _not_ an elf, since his father had been human—but that the young man’s nightmares were starting to frighten her. This had led to what Caitlyn initially came to fear was a trap or a wild-goose chase, involving questioning the young man’s merchant father, a surprisingly mage-sympathetic Templar named Ser Thrask, a former Templar who apparently aided runaway apostates, a ship captain who turned out to be a slave broker, and—at last—the slaver himself, leading to a fight. In the end, Caitlyn, Anders, Merrill, and Varric had urged the young mage to seek out the Dalish clan, where he wanted to go rather than the Circle of Magi. He hoped that he would be welcome there because of his magical talent and elven blood, even though he looked entirely human. Unhappily, Merrill privately confided to Caitlyn that he very well might be, since the Keeper, her former teacher, no longer had a pupil to train to carry on her legacy.

At least some coin had come of the adventure, plus the satisfaction of keeping at least one mage from the clutches of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard— _and_ a _very_ interesting letter that explained exactly why the first Templar, Ser Thrask, was sympathetic to an apostate mage.

“The hypocrite!” Anders exclaimed upon reading the letter. “He had a secret apostate daughter whom he protected from the Circle, while being party to locking up other people’s daughters—other people’s sons!” He, or Justice, felt a pang of righteous outrage at the thought of Mal in that place. It would never happen, he vowed again to himself.

Caitlyn saw it differently. “His daughter is _dead_ because she tried to flee Kirkwall and got captured by that slaver we killed. You heard Thrask after he learned where we sent Feynriel. He said that the Dalish train mages at least as well as the Circle, and in fact seem to have far fewer abominations. I think he’s all right, Anders—I really do.”

“He is still a Templar. He is part of that system, part of Meredith Stannard’s Circle.”

“He must think that he can better protect the mages in the Circle from her by being there to check the bad ones among the ranks. Yes, the entire system should be changed—but I honestly think he can be trusted. He did protect his own apostate daughter, but he’s sent other apostates to his former colleague too.”

“Who then directed them to slavers and slave brokers.”

“He didn’t know that was going on. My point is, I think Thrask is truly all right and it’s not just that he thinks all mages _except_ his blood should be treated a certain way. He’s been kind to others too. Maybe he is like the one Carver was named for, the one who helped my parents escape.”

Anders breathed heavily. If he were honest with himself, part of this reaction was the spark of jealousy at the fact that Hawke was singing praises of this man—and his increasingly pent-up frustration that they still had not gone to bed again yet. “What exactly do you have in mind for him?” he managed.

“A source of information about the goings-on in Meredith Stannard’s own territory,” she said, “and, potentially, an ally among the Templars who wants to see the Circles changed. His daughter died trying to get out of this city, because she didn’t think she could live here safely as a mage. He is mourning now, but that could motivate him greatly later.” She sighed. “I don’t like Templars as a rule either, Anders,” she said, touching his arm gently. “I realize exactly what they did to us.”

“You didn’t suffer directly at their hands as I did,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t let me write to my mother or read letters from her or keep anything of hers except a pillow. She had to have a dying priest smuggle me her ring. They blasted me to the ground when I was trying to honor your father. They cut my arm and took my blood. They locked me in a room for a full year, with no company. They tried to destroy the spirit that saved my life multiple times over. And they made my best friend Tranquil.”

Her heart went out to him, and she instantly folded her arms around him gently, resting her head on his shoulder. “I know,” she said. “I know you suffered much more than I did—which is why I must be the one to take on anything political to do with them, any cultivating of allies among them. I don’t ask you to be a part of that if it’s too much—but I do think _I_ have to. It won’t be easy for me either... but it will be easier for me than for you.”

He returned her embrace, resting his head gently on top of hers. She was right, he knew—despite Vengeance-Justice’s drive to kill every single Templar in Thedas, _Anders_ knew that it couldn’t be done. The Templar Order existed and had to be dealt with. He recalled his own classification of them into three groups: the Rolans, Rylocks, and Merediths who despised their charges; the bulk of them who saw mages as inherently weak and the system as necessary but did not take joy in it; and... he supposed... the Thrasks. He had always distrusted those in Ferelden who seemed too chummy with mages, but perhaps if it was not just useless, potentially predatory chumminess.... Thrask _did_ help harmless apostates, after all, and seemed to have no problem with a mage living outside the Circle as long as that mage got proper training from _somewhere._ Perhaps he might even be persuadable to the idea that apprentices who _did_ have to be trained away from their families, because they had no one who could teach them, could be allowed to leave once they had learned how to control their magic. The Templar had not exhibited any hostility or suspicion toward Anders either, respecting him as a trusted Grey Warden. _I suppose the true test will come if he ever sees Caitlyn doing magic,_ he thought direly.

And that, he realized with a start, was the rest of his dissatisfaction with this. It was true that he didn’t _personally_ want to deal with any of them except in combat, even a mage-sympathetic one; it was as though the symbol of the Templar Order itself set him off to some degree. But he was also worried for Caitlyn. If she was wrong that Thrask could be trusted—if her inclination to turn him into an information source and an ally exploded in her face as soon as she cast a spell in his sight—

 _Then I will kill him. Or I will do as she permitted me and conscript her into the Wardens,_ he thought grimly. _They will never take her away or Mal, ever._

He hugged her tightly. “Just be careful,” he burst out.

She understood at once and squeezed him back. “I will.”

* * *

Anders continued to be frustrated in his wish to rekindle the intimate part of their relationship. Caitlyn spent the night at her family’s house night after night, perhaps out of a determinedly dutiful attempt to retain the familial relationships that she still had. He hoped that it was that, rather than that his place in Darktown was so unpleasant that she never wanted to lie down there ever again—though he sadly granted that as a possibility. He stayed in Lowtown with her, sleeping cuddled against her on the little mattress on the floor, but there was little that they could do with Leandra’s bed on one side and Mal’s on the other.

There was also little opportunity during the waking hours. She and her brother went on jobs frequently, to scrape together every bit of coin that they could while also doing a vigilante’s part to reduce crime in Kirkwall— _since the Viscount and other authorities have so little interest in doing so,_ he thought darkly—and so her visits to his clinic were usually not alone. If Anders had not been determined to sleep beside her at night, he would have considered staying in the clinic alone to see to his personal needs. He couldn’t understand how she was tolerating _that_ herself, in fact. Surely she did, in fact, want him too? _Though if she doesn’t want that yet, it would explain why she doesn’t want to come back to the clinic,_ he thought.

It would happen when it happened, he resolved. He had waited four years for her. He could wait a few days—or weeks—longer.

* * *

Anders was working in the clinic and watching Mal while Caitlyn and Carver went out with two of their companions to clear out a gang at the Docks. It had gone well, with no one suffering a serious injury that needed attention, so they had not needed to pay him a visit afterward, and Caitlyn did not want to cut short Mal’s time observing his father work as a Healer, since that interested him so much. Thus Anders was not present at the Amell-Hawke house for what followed.

After parting with Aveline and Varric at the pub, the siblings returned to the house and stepped inside. They instantly realized something was wrong at the sight of their mother, bent over on the divan, her hands over her face, while Uncle Gamlen stood beside the wall looking sheepish and, for once, guilty.

Carver was about to go to him to ask what had happened, not wanting to upset their mother further, but Leandra rose up at the sound of the door. She gazed tearily at her children.

“The Viscount’s seneschal replied to my petition for an audience,” she whispered. She shook her head. “He... rejected it.”

Caitlyn and Carver were horrified. “He wouldn’t even agree to a _hearing?”_ she burst out. “Why?”

Leandra shook her head again. “The letter was very simple. He gave no reason, just a refusal. I... don’t understand. The Amells were a noble family of Kirkwall, and very recently. Gamlen himself held the title and mansion until a few years ago.” She sighed heavily and covered her face again.

Caitlyn picked up the letter that was unfolded beside her mother on the divan. She read it, and it was as her mother had described: a very simple, curt, formal refusal of her petition to be heard. If Caitlyn had to guess, she would have doubted that Viscount Dumar had even seen her mother’s petition, for the very reason that her mother had just stated: The Amells _had_ been nobility. _Someone else is seeing to the Viscount’s business, apparently with his permission—_ the letter did bear the official seal of Kirkwall— _and making decisions without consulting him, or perhaps without telling him the truth about what people are asking of him. Who, though? And why would Mother have been rejected?_

She passed the letter wordlessly to her brother, who read it quickly and then almost crumpled it in his hand before smoothing it out and tossing it to the floor contemptuously. “Dumar, or whoever is managing his affairs for him, must have a prejudice against Fereldans,” Carver spat. “I can’t think of any other reason to refuse to even _hear_ you.”

“I am not Fereldan by birth,” Leandra began to protest.

“But you married a Fereldan man and had children who have lived in Ferelden all their lives until a year ago,” Caitlyn said. “Carver may be right, Mother.”

“But this means that you and Carver really will have to go into the Deep Roads to _buy_ it back,” she said miserably. “Oh, my dears—I didn’t want you to have to do that, I truly did not.”

Caitlyn sighed. She had allowed herself to get her hopes up as well, and now they were dashed. She and Carver shared a quick glance before sitting down on either side of their mother. “It’s all right,” she reassured the older woman. “We’ll be fine.”

“They’re the _Deep Roads,”_ she exclaimed. “There is nothing ‘fine’ about that!”

“The Blight never crossed the Waking Sea,” she said, “and Bartrand Tethras will have plenty of support in any case. It’ll be fine. We’ll get the house back; we’ll just have to do it the hard way.”

A knock sounded on the door. “That’s Anders and Mal,” Caitlyn said, rising to let them in.

Leandra ran her fingers through her silver hair. “I hate to be so rude,” she mumbled, “but I just need to go to bed. Please make my apologies for me, Cait—you don’t mind, do you? I hope he won’t mind either....”

“I am certain that he won’t,” she reassured her mother as she let them inside.

Mal was drowsy and ready to go to sleep after briefly playing with the dog. While he did, Caitlyn explained to Anders in a low voice what had just happened.

Anders had a different theory as to why the Viscount’s people had refused Leandra. “It might be anti-Fereldan bigotry,” he said with a nod to Carver, “but it might also be that someone there has a problem with mages. It’s widely known in Kirkwall that your father was a mage, after all, even if they don’t know that you are one.”

“Or a combination of both,” she said, groaning. She heaved a sigh. “All right. We’ll have to follow the original plan.”

It was to be another night of frustration, Anders recognized. She absolutely would not be in the mood tonight, after a blow like this, but he could not leave her after such a disappointment either.

* * *

Caitlyn poured herself into her work, determined to acquire the buy-in coin for the Tethras expedition more than ever. The next job that came her way was from the moderate Templar who had supported mages, Ser Thrask. Apparently the Circle of Magi at Starkhaven had burned, and a group of mages had escaped in the chaos and were believed to be hiding near Kirkwall. A mage-hating extremist named Karras was on their trail, Thrask told Caitlyn and her associates—who included Anders at this particular time, since he was unable to turn aside from a case involving mages. If this Ser Karras caught the group of apostates first, they would be punished severely, probably made Tranquil, and possibly killed outright, whereas Thrask sympathized with them and would take them under his wing.

In the system of caves where the apostates were hiding, Anders confronted Caitlyn. “Are you really going to hand these mages over to that Templar?” he asked her in a low voice, eliciting a glare from Carver at the question.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’d rather not, if we can contrive a way to avoid it. I agree with you that even if Thrask is a good man, he is not the Knight-Commander, and he doesn’t have any authority over what other Templars do—let alone Circle policies. And for all we know, this Ser Karras is going to be waiting for us outside the cave when we come out. He is on their trail.”

After an encounter with a single mage named Alain who was disillusioned with his fellows and wanted to go to the Circle with Thrask, a fight involving the leader of the group who had turned to blood magic, and a bargain with the lieutenant, Grace, to lie to the Templars that the mages were all killed, that was exactly what Caitlyn and her associates found when they returned to the mouth of the cave. Thrask was surrounded by Karras and a pack of apparently like-minded Templars, who made it very clear that they intended to kill all the apostates as he had feared.

Caitlyn cast Anders an uneasy glance. This was _exactly_ the kind of situation that would cause Justice to burst out. So far, though, the spirit was staying in the background—or Anders was controlling it just enough.

She was concerned about the numbers and makeup of her team against a group of Templars. In addition to Anders and Carver, and the extra mage Alain, Merrill was with them, and a Holy Smite from a Templar might incapacitate all four of the mages, leaving Carver to fight alone unless Thrask took their side. She didn’t want to risk that... but informing Karras that her team was there on Ser Thrask’s behalf was exactly the wrong thing to say. Thrask was soft, Thrask favored mages, Thrask was a traitor to the Templar Order—Caitlyn knew as soon as the man’s face curdled with rage that this was going to come to a fight.

It was a brutal, ugly, difficult battle. Merrill used blood magic against Karras and his group more than once, and Caitlyn desperately hoped that Alain and Thrask—who _were_ both fighting with her—did not notice, or that Merrill’s Dalish variant of it was different enough that it was not obvious what it was. Thrask did recognize from the elven tattoos on her face that Merrill was a Dalish mage, and he seemed to have no problem with that. He also, she realized, was seeing _her_ do spells for the first time. What would come of this? When Alain went back with the Templar—assuming they won the battle—would he insist that she go along too? Would it then come to blows between him and Anders, who absolutely would not stand for it, or Carver, for that matter, who was protective too in his brash, resentful way? Would Justice come out if Thrask did try that? Caitlyn thought the odds of that were pretty good. It had to take all of Anders’ willpower to keep the spirit from “helping” him in this battle right now....

Thrask went down with a nasty gash that went all the way through his right bracer. Karras then turned to Caitlyn, the most powerful mage of the remaining defenders, and engaged her. He was wounded already, however—she had to give Thrask credit for that—and she instantly took advantage of the slowness of his blows.

Carver finished off his opponent and turned to his sister to aid her. He slammed Karras with his greatsword, not cutting through the armor but stunning the man just long enough for Caitlyn to freeze him solid. Another blow from the sword ended him, and with him, the fight.

Anders was visibly resentful of it, but he managed to heal Thrask’s injuries, allowing the man to get back on his feet. He grabbed his staff and held it in front of him warily, watching the Templar with suspicious eyes.

Thrask was distraught at what had just happened, both that he had killed other Templars and that it had been _necessary_ in order to do the right thing—that the Order he had sworn himself to really had come to this, at least in some of its members. Anders clearly did not want to hear it, and turned aside in disgust to try to control himself.

At last, Caitlyn spoke up. “Well,” she said crisply, “you undoubtedly noticed how I was fighting, Ser Thrask.”

Anders whirled around, staff still held in front of him. “And you had best leave her be,” he warned. “I _will_ defend this woman if I must—though she’s perfectly capable of defending herself, as you saw. You don’t want to end up like _them,_ I hope,” he said with a sneering glance at the dead bodies of Karras and his team.

Caitlyn did not wait for Thrask to respond to this display of overt menace and aggression. It felt very strange to be the one attempting to be nice and diplomatic while Anders threatened and snarled, but it seemed that when it came to Templars, that would be the case. “You accepted Dalish-trained mages and harmless apostates who have tutors or learned how to control their magic. My father, who was a mage, trained me, and I am no more of a threat to peace than this mage who wishes to go back to the Circle with you.”

“That’s right,” Anders said aggressively. “And furthermore—since _you_ had a mage daughter whom you protected, so that she could live as an apostate her whole life—”

Alain looked at Thrask in surprise. “You did?”

Thrask nodded. “She is gone now, but yes, I did.”

“You should know, Caitlyn and I have a child. A child who would be without his mother if you succeeded in taking her away—which, I should repeat, you won’t.”

Thrask sheathed his sword and held his hands out in surrender. “I have no intention of bringing you back to the Circle against your will if you are trained already and clearly are not harming anyone,” he said. “I noticed that you were a mage before you entered that cave, in fact. I saw the staff on your back. Since you are a child of Malcolm Hawke, who half of Kirkwall knows about, it didn’t exactly shock me.” He turned to Alain. “May I have a private word with them?”

The Starkhaven mage stepped aside. “Of course.”

Thrask gestured for Caitlyn and Carver—and, after a moment’s thought, Anders—to draw closer. Merrill stepped back to stand near Alain, though she did not seem to want to get too close.

“I learned about what came of your mother’s petition to the Viscount,” he said grimly.

“Wait,” Caitlyn interrupted, her mind instantly deducing a few things. “That was supposed to be private. Are you saying that the Templars have people—”

Thrask nodded. “To hold onto power and influence the direction of secular law in the city, the Knight-Commander passes herself off as the Viscount’s ‘friend.’ She has sent some of her favorites to the Keep to ‘help’ him with administrative duties. The Templar who rejected your mother’s petition is a zealot named Mettin, Ser Mettin, and he makes it his personal job to harass and punish ‘mage-sympathetic’ people wherever he thinks they may be in Kirkwall.”

Caitlyn was stunned. She had entertained Anders’ idea that the Viscount’s people had rejected Mother’s petition because of the mage blood in her children and her elopement with a mage, but she had assumed that they really were the Viscount’s people. She glanced at Anders, who was breathing heavily. Very faint flashes of blue were appearing beneath his skin, and Caitlyn took his hand gently to try to calm him. The absolute last thing they needed right now was for Justice to appear. He gazed gratefully at her and squeezed her hand back.

“There is no doubt in my mind that Ser Mettin did this because of your mother’s elopement twenty-odd years ago,” Thrask continued. He scowled at the ground. “I became a Templar to _protect mages._ From themselves and from demons, so I believed at first—but as I spent more time in the service, I came to see that more often, it meant protecting mages from other _people_ who hated mages, including, increasingly, my fellow Templars.”

Anders was taken by surprise at that, but something still bothered him about Thrask’s words. “Perhaps mages wouldn’t need protection from other people if there weren’t zealot Templars and clerics who spread lies about us,” he said tightly.

Thrask sighed, unwilling to verbally assent to that, but also unwilling to disagree. “I have tried to keep watch on these zealots to the extent that I can and interfere with their plots, especially inside the Circle. Ser Mettin is one of them, at least here in Kirkwall. Karras was another, and as you saw, his preference was outright murder.”

“And good riddance,” Caitlyn replied, scowling. “I just hate that you’ll have to give some excuse for their deaths that will make them look like heroes who died fighting against the dangerous apostates.” Beside her, Anders glowered at that idea.

“There is a third ‘leader’ of this group, named Otto Alrik, who is... very fond of the Rite of Tranquility. I have not yet been able to _prove_ that he abuses it....” He scowled again, rising to his feet and heading toward Alain. “Right, then. I’ll keep your secrets if you’ll continue to keep mine, including the knowledge that I am collecting and sharing information on other Templars.”

Caitlyn thought quickly before extending her hand for Thrask to shake. Anders’ eyes widened in visible alarm at this, but he apparently understood that the only alternative was to kill Thrask, and even he was not willing to do that.

Thrask and Alain headed back first, followed by Caitlyn and her companions after a period of waiting. Along the way, Anders spoke up again.

“I’m astonished that that Templar was so willing to speak against his fellows, even naming names,” he remarked.

“I was surprised too,” she said, “but I think he means what he says. He never hated mages, of course, but people can indeed sometimes be swayed to change their minds about something if they witness atrocities—which he must have.”

“I don’t want to trust any Templar,” Anders continued, “but I hope I’m wrong and you’re right about this one! I will fight any Templar who tries to take you away, but I also hope you’re right because it _is_ more hopeful for our cause if even one of _them_ could be made to be more reasonable.”

“I was named for a Templar who aided my parents by helping my father escape,” Carver put in. “He smuggled Father’s phylactery away. There are some who are all right.”

“A few,” Anders said grudgingly. “But there are many others who are like that Karras—or the others he named. Or the one in Ferelden who... well, _you_ know.”

“On that subject, I was expecting Justice to show up,” Caitlyn said.

Anders stared ahead. “He almost did.”

“I saw flashes of spirit light.”

He nodded. “I was struggling to keep him from taking over. He was outraged at that bastard Karras when he said he intended to kill the mages, but I was able to channel his rage through my own mind this time.”

She smiled encouragingly at him and stopped on the path, taking him by the arm and forcing him to stop too. To her brother’s disgust and Merrill’s shy approval, she planted a kiss on his cheek right there. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “I knew you could handle it.”

Anders’ blood was already up from the fight, and specifically the fact that it had been a fight to defend a group of free mages. He was feeling pleased, for the most part, about the outcome—though he wished that Alain had chosen to stay with his associates—and this was stirring other feelings in him once again too. Working together with Caitlyn for the same goal, helping their fellow mages, did that to him—and he hoped that her sudden urge to kiss him meant that she was having those feelings stirred up too.

 _Tonight,_ he promised himself. _You have done your duty to your family, if you think you do owe them a duty to live with them. Just give me this, love._

* * *

After Merrill departed for the alienage, the rest of the group headed to the house in Lowtown for dinner—but a very unpleasant scene met their eyes when they entered inside.

A man in leather armor was towering over Uncle Gamlen and Leandra, demanding something from them. Carver reached for his blade, and Caitlyn and Anders readied their staves, but the sounds caught the man’s attention. He whirled around and glared at them.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he spat. “I’m not here for blood and I don’t intend to hurt any of you lot unless you force it. I am here on behalf of the Carta, to collect a gambling debt that this man owes the house—and if I don’t come out of this shack, others are going to follow me. _Many_ others.”

All good feeling from the expedition to help the Starkhaven apostates was gone now. Caitlyn’s eyes met her mother’s. “Where is Mal?” she demanded angrily.

Leandra nodded in the direction of the bedroom door. “He is in there with the dog. I didn’t want him to—”

Uncle Gamlen was scrounging under the divan. To the dismay and outrage of all three young people standing, he brought out a small box— _the Deep Roads expedition funds!_ Caitlyn thought. She could hardly bear to watch as her uncle opened the box and counted one, two, three, five, ten, _fourteen_ gold, putting the sovereigns— _our sovereigns!—_ into the debt collector’s hands.

 _We were already ten short,_ she thought in misery, _but it was possible to earn that. Twenty-four, though? That leaves us with barely half of what we need to buy in, and the expedition is only a few weeks away. We can never earn it back now._ Despair threatened to choke her as the collector pocketed the gold, turned aside, passed by the trio, and slammed the door behind him.

Caitlyn seethed with rage. Sparks began to pop behind her eyes, and she knew that flames were bursting from her palms. She advanced on her uncle. “That was _our money!”_ she roared, snatching the box away him—too late.

“That bastard was going to—I don’t even know, probably sell me to get the coin from me!” Gamlen protested hotly.

“You’d deserve it!” she burst out, to the shock of everyone present. Anders looked askance at her, and her mother gazed sorrowfully at her face. She ignored all of it. “You sold Carver and me! All right,” she said, cooling off ever so slightly, “I wouldn’t want you _enslaved._ But if the Carta indentured you to pay off your own damned debts to them—”

Anders placed a hand on her shoulder and rubbed gently. “Caitlyn,” he said.

She continued heedlessly. “It wasn’t enough for you to do that to us, of course. Nor was it enough for you to burn through a fortune—and the value of an entire _mansion—_ to support your habits of drinking, gambling, and whoring. Oh no—you also had to thieve from us, the money _we_ earned trying to _fix_ this corrupt crime-ridden pit of a city, that would have paid for the expedition that would have given us the estate back!”

Gamlen scoffed. “You can always earn more.”

“It’s too late,” she retorted. “The expedition is three weeks away. We _cannot_ earn twenty-four sovereigns in that time.” She stared at him in disgust and fury. “I hope you’re satisfied. Your selfishness has crushed our hopes and plans for good now!”

“I offered you my _house!_ I have helped you; it won’t hurt you to help me occasionally.”

“We _already have!_ And this isn’t about helping you with food. You don’t have to gamble! You _choose_ to incur these debts and then make other people pay them off for you! And don’t act as if offering us your house is such a great and unusual sacrifice. If the Blight had been in the Free Marches and you had come to Lothering instead, we would have welcomed you—because that’s what families are _supposed_ to do for each other! Not be parasites!”

Gamlen ignored that. “If I hadn’t been here, your brother and your mother would probably still be shut up in the Gallows, or shipped back to Ferelden, or scrounging in Darktown for crumbs—and _you_ would have been sent to the Circle while your brat was taken away from you and raised in the Chantry!” he spat.

Behind her, Caitlyn felt Anders tense. “Shut up,” he said, his voice cold and deadly. “Don’t you dare say that again.”

Gamlen sneered. “Why are you even here?” he barked. “You’re not of our blood.”

He glared back, otherwise utterly ignoring Gamlen, then turned to Caitlyn. “Caitlyn, do you want to—”

“Yes,” she said at once. She did not even need him to finish asking the question. She knew what he was going to say, and her mind was made up. “I do.” She turned back to her uncle. “I’m _leaving,”_ she announced, “and I’m taking Mal and Baldwin with me.” Passing the money box to Anders, she glared at her uncle one last time. “I am _sick_ of your vomiting in alleys, coming in drunk, bringing in women that my child asks about, and now, stealing from us to pay off your gambling debts. I’m _gone_ and I will _not_ be coming back.” She gazed regretfully at Carver and her mother. “You two know where I will be, and you’re always welcome there.”

She stormed into the bedroom and began to pack. Even after a year in Kirkwall, she had few belongings, and they all fit into a pair of crates, one for her and one for Anders to carry.

Mal rose from his bed and rubbed his eyes. “Mamma?” he said. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going to your father’s place,” she said, trying to keep her voice gentle.

He noticed that she was filling the crates. “To stay?” he asked, putting two and two together.

“Yes, to stay,” Anders replied as he entered the bedroom. In spite of the appalling domestic scene that he had just witnessed, another part of him was jubilant that she and Mal would finally be leaving this wretched environment behind and coming to live with him. He also intended something else once they got there, something that should perk her mood up well—if she accepted it.

Mal smiled and got to his feet to try to help his mother, though there was little that he could do. It really had not taken her long at all to pack.

They emerged from the bedroom, the dog trailing behind and Mal clinging to his mother’s skirt, when she remembered that she had packed the money. Glancing guiltily at Carver, she said, “I... want to take the Deep Roads money with us. No offense. It’s not that I don’t trust _you.”_

“No, I know who you don’t trust,” Carver replied. “And... it may not be hopeless, Cait. Maybe the Carta or someone would lend us the extra money....”

She sighed. The Carta probably would, in fact—but did she really want to take out a loan from the unscrupulous dwarven criminal guild? _If it will get me into the expedition, I’ll do it,_ she decided. _The treasure should be large enough that they can be paid off._

“Caitlyn,” Leandra pleaded as she, Anders, Mal, and the dog headed for the door, crates in their arms. “Please—reconsider—”

She turned around and gazed sadly at her mother. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, meaning it as far as her mother’s feelings were concerned, “but it must be done. This is never going to get better, and... if you look at it the right way... we should have been living together for four years now.”

Leandra looked miserable, but she did not argue further. With a parting glance, Caitlyn and the others walked out the door.

* * *

Mal was eager to go right back to sleep as soon as his belongings were unpacked in Anders’ clinic and a bed was set aside for him, pushed against the wall and warded by Anders with a glyph once again. The mabari Baldwin sat down near the main entrance to guard it.

Anders and Caitlyn unpacked the rest of the items from the crates, setting them in the small alcove that was Anders’ personal room. When they reached the box of money, he stared at it for a moment, then opened it up.

“He took fourteen gold from you tonight?” Anders asked her. “And you now need twenty-four to buy into the expedition?”

She nodded wretchedly. “Carver may be right about a Carta loan. I hate the thought of it, but....” She trailed off as Anders began to rummage through a crate of his own. He opened a sack and began to count money from it, dropping the pieces into the box. _“Anders!”_ she exclaimed. “What are you doing? How can you afford this?”

“I’ve saved up quite a bit since I was conscripted into the Wardens. I was paid well and had virtually no living expenses, since they provided food and shelter,” he said, still counting money into the Hawkes’ box. “I send reports back to Amaranthine, and Commander Cousland just sent me my quarterly stipend here in Kirkwall, in fact—and a very nice note expressing how delighted she was to learn that you and Mal survived after all.”

“Anders,” she repeated, astonished, as he finished counting the gold and silver into the box. “You really didn’t have to—”

He closed the lid of the Hawkes’ box, set it in his crate next to his money bag—which still had coin in it—and then leaned over to kiss her. “Yes,” he said, briefly breaking the kiss, “I did. You don’t need to borrow money from the Carta.”

“I’ll have to tell Carver the next time I see him,” she said, choking up as she fell into his arms willingly. “He should know—anything he makes from now on is his—Maker, thank you so much—”

“Thank the Maker, or thank me?” Anders teased.

She threw her arms around his neck. “You’ve done so much for us,” she said in a whisper, her voice almost breaking. “For me.” She buried her head next to his neck, feeling him rub her back in gentle circles. “I don’t know how I can pay you back for all of it....”

“Well, that’s the beauty of it,” he said lightly. “With me, you don’t have to.” He raised her head gently and smiled at her. “Just being with me is enough, love.”


	18. The Undone and the Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is highly NSFW! Additionally, the first “time” may include some elements that aren’t everyone’s personal cup of tea. It’s pretty mild D/s and has equally mild bondage, so more of an FYI than a warning, but nonetheless. What follows after that does not contain any kinks, but Anders is way too pent up right now not to get rough and assertive the first time.
> 
> Song inspiration is “Bedroom Hymns” by Florence + the Machine, which uses blasphemy to great effect. For _some_ reason this particular ship lends itself to that kink, too.

Anders and Caitlyn cuddled on the floor of his tiny bedroom, exchanging kisses that began languidly but became increasingly intense as long-denied desire stirred in each of them. Before long, she was gasping against his mouth between kisses and he was almost devouring her. His hands had found their way up her skirt, against her bare legs, and were resting on the outsides of her thighs before she realized it. The sensation was like a jolt of lightning—and she would have wondered momentarily if he had sent one through her, had she not experienced it before and known what it felt like.

“Anders,” she gasped, finally breaking away from his lips. “Please—”

He pulled away from her face, suddenly tightening his grip on her thighs, and stared at her. “Please?” he repeated almost mockingly.

She tried to lean forward to capture his lips again, but he quickly withdrew his hands from her legs and grabbed her by her upper arms, holding her away from him and pinning her arms against her sides. A smirk formed on his face. “I’ve waited for  _ weeks _ since we kissed for the first time again,” he said, his voice almost growly with need.

She struggled in his grip, trying to move forward to press against him or lift her arms to embrace him. “Anders, I wanted to try to make it work with my family—I didn’t mean to deny  _ you_—so please don’t make me wait because of that. Please don’t punish me for that.”

A sudden throb of desire pulsed through his body at her words, and the idea of “punishing her,” sending what felt like all his blood rushing to one certain spot in his body. Trying to keep it together, he managed to growl out, “Then show me that you want me. Beg me.”

She drew in her breath and exhaled quickly, feeling that it was far too short a breath for this moment. “Please,” she said again. Her words were short and breathy, her eyes open, pupils wide and dark. “I want you tonight. I need you. It’s been so long. Please....”

He paused for a moment, breathing heavily, before lifting her to her feet and then pushing her onto the mattress of the small bed. She instantly sat upright, gazing at him, her legs stretched on the bed. Anders hovered near the bedside and then lunged for her without warning, unbuckling her belt, loosening it, and lifting her skirt to pull her robe over her head without pausing. Her hair was mussed from the motion, making her appear already ravished to his greedy eyes. She moved to take off her breastband.

“Stop.”

Caitlyn muffled a gasp as she saw a flash of light blue in each eye for a brief moment.

Anders folded his arms over his chest and stared at her for what seemed like far too long, though she realized on some level that he was trying to make her wait as he had. “Don’t move,” he said, his voice low and throaty.

She could not break her gaze from his. Watching him as he stared at her, arms folded, a feigned scowl on his face except for the one corner of his mouth that was turned upward, sent thrums of lust down her body. Traveling Ferelden and serving as a Grey Warden after his final escape had put him in extremely good shape, and it showed in his trim, fit form. She wet her lips with a quick movement of her tongue, making him draw another short, urgent breath, but he retained his composure.

“Anders,” she finally burst out, “what do you want me to do?”

The expression on his face changed into an unequivocal smirk. “That’s more like it,” he murmured, uncrossing his arms and slowly unbuckling his belt. He looped the loose end of the belt through the central ring, letting both ends fall to his sides, then moved his hands to the fasteners of his coat. Her gaze followed his dexterous fingers the whole time, prompting another knowing smirk. “Watch me,” he said. “Keep your gaze on me. Show me through the need in your eyes how much you want me....”

She watched intently as he opened the fasteners of his coat. The coat fell open, and she expected him to take it off. Instead he lunged forward, took her by the shoulders, shoved her onto her back on the small mattress, and climbed on top of her still fully dressed.

Yes, he was fit indeed, she thought as he slid his hands swiftly down her arms to find her wrists, then pinned her arms above her head with a single hand. She wondered how much of this was that she did not  _ want  _ to break free... but he was strong. Keeping her wrists tightly pressed against the mattress and firmly in his grip, he reached his free hand under her to unhook her breastband.

“Anders,” she protested as he pulled the small garment away and dropped it beside her, “this is unfair. I want to see _you_ too....”

“Just see me?”

“And touch you.”

“All in good time,” he replied. He thought for a second before picking up the discarded undergarment again. He released her wrists, regarding her for a brief moment and running the band through his fingers almost threateningly. She moved her arms toward the open flaps of his coat to try to take it off.

“Nope,” he said at once. Before she could react, he seized her wrists again, lifted them above her head once more, and quickly wrapped the undergarment around them several times, tying it in a loose knot.

_ “Anders!” _ she protested. “You said you would let me touch you!”

“You made me wait for weeks,” he said again, smiling. He was enjoying this a great deal, and he could tell that despite her protests, so was she. “Because of that, when you do, it’ll be on my terms.”

She let out a groan and tried to cast a spell to burn the garment away. Anders smiled down archly at her at the sign of the first tiny flame. “I  _ will  _ dispel your magic if you try that,” he said. “And you know that I know that spell.”

Another groan of complaint, this one closer to a growl, escaped from her throat. She glowered back at him. “You’re deliberately tormenting me. I asked you not to punish me, but that just gave you this idea, didn’t it?” Another thought entered her mind, and wildly, giddily, she voiced it. “Or is this Justice’s influence? You think I really do deserve this?”

She was not entirely surprised when a faint flash of blue light appeared in his eyes once again, additional lightning-bolt flashes crackling across his neck and jawline for a fraction of a second. She never would have imagined it when she first met him again in Kirkwall, but  _ now,  _ the flashes sent throbs of desire straight to her core, whether because of the potential danger or the fact that what he had done was forbidden—or a mix of the two.

“You deserve it, all right,” he said in a near-whisper. His gaze was his own now, but it was still intense, and his cheeks were becoming flushed. He quickly divested himself of his boots and shrugged his coat off, revealing the lean but toned arms that she had wanted to see.

Come to think of it, it was a little unexpected to Caitlyn that she was enjoying this  _ situation  _ so much. With Leliana, she had been the more dominant partner, the one who usually led. Still... she recalled some memories with Anders from Lothering. She had liked him to lead then... but  _ this  _ was rather more than just leading. He had never tied her down before or given her command after command other than to tell her what he wanted her to do in the act itself—but for some reason, this was perfect right now.  _ Why? _ she thought, to the extent that she could still think cogently while Anders was undressing slowly for her.  _ So many things have seemed out of my control in this city. I have had to cling to every shred of power that I can, like tonight, taking the remaining coin and getting out of the house, or being aggressive and tough on the streets of Kirkwall. I haven’t even liked ceding control to my own mother, or Carver. Why am I enjoying this so much? _

As Anders lifted his tunic over his head, mussing his hair a bit and revealing his well-toned chest for her hungry eyes, she realized that... that  _ was  _ why.  _ I do those things because I have to; otherwise I really will be taken advantage of. That’s not a danger with Anders. I trust him. He’s safe, I know it, and therefore this is safe—and it’s a really nice change of pace to be vulnerable occasionally, to not be in control, but to still feel completely safe. _

She realized something else.  _ And if I think that, it means I trust Justice now too. _

He untied the drawstrings of his trousers, drawing her attention to the large bulge that they were still concealing—but only for a second as he pulled them down. She drew her breath again; she had not seen an adult man nude since he had left and almost forgotten the size of— _that._ _It has been a while, yes, but I have given birth since I was last with him,_ she thought. _It’s fine._

He mounted the bed and got on top of her, pushing her legs apart by settling his own between them. She was still wearing her smalls, and she realized that they were soaked through. “Anders,” she said urgently, “I still have—”

The hard thrust against her still-covered core, while he pressed her shoulders into the mattress, told her that he remembered—and he was  _ still  _ going to torment her for a little while yet. A groan of complaint escaped her mouth. “You—you wicked apostate,” she hissed.

He only smirked. “Says the woman who’s been one all her life.” He thrust against her again, sending a surge of pleasure rippling from her sensitive mound.

She gasped and tried to shift beneath him, but he kept her from moving much with his hands pushing her against the bed. A groan of frustration and increasing desire left her lips. “Abomination!” she burst out daringly.

He knew that she was trying to get a response out of him. “Do you think,” Anders drawled, “that calling me names will make me stop?” He smiled arrogantly at her. “I am Justice. And you are only prolonging mine upon you.”

She set her jaw and tried to remember what he said would make him give her what she—what they both—wanted. “Anders,  _ please,” _ she begged.

“That’s better.”

“How can _you_ stand waiting?” she burst out, trying to break the binding around her wrists even though she knew she could not do it without magic. “You’ve told me how long you have wanted me!”

His pupils widened with lust, and with that, the façade cracked. His cocky smirk faded as he leaned over, pressing himself against her, planting intense but tender kisses against the side of her neck. “I have wanted you,” he murmured, pulling away from a kiss that would probably leave a mark. “I’ve wanted you  _ so much. _ I always wanted you.”

She realized that he was not just talking about the past few weeks in Kirkwall. Their game forgotten, she breathed quickly and replied, “I always wanted you too. I always loved you.”

He moaned and kissed her again, very near the last spot.

“Even when I was angry and thought I wanted to stop, I couldn’t, because I knew I really didn’t.” She met his eyes as he lifted his head again to gaze down at her. “It’s been so long. Please. Please, love—please let me show you how much I love and want you.”

He swallowed and blinked rapidly, his breaths rapid indeed now. The cockiness was gone as he rose up, leaving her without the touch of his skin against hers, but she knew that would not last long, so it was bearable. He slipped his thumbs into her smalls and pulled them down, Caitlyn lifting her legs and bending her knees to help him. He tossed the undergarment aside and gazed at her again for a brief second, then untied the knot of the other undergarment that was wrapped around her wrists. Her arms were free again—and instantly she caressed his face, pulling him down for another kiss.

With nothing, not even a thin layer of linen, between them, she tried—not even entirely deliberately—to wrap her legs around his waist and sate some of her intense desire for him that way. She needed him so much that the rush of blood made her feminine core literally hurt from swelling desire—but that would not last long. When he gripped her shoulders, stared intensely into her eyes, and _finally_ buried himself in her to the hilt with a strangled moan, she felt a surge of combined pain shading into pleasure that almost sent her over the edge immediately.

They belonged together. It had been so long since she’d felt this—the night before the day that he had left her in Lothering, in fact. What she’d had with Leliana had been sweet and nice, good for her at the time, but she and Anders were two halves of a whole. She realized that now. _That_ was why it had hurt so much for so long. She needed him—he needed her—in too many ways to enumerate... especially right this moment. Right at this moment, the thought that was flooding her mind was how lovely, how _delicious,_ it was to be joined with him physically and intimately—

He leaned over again and kissed her passionately on the mouth once more, prodding her lips apart with his tongue, and slid out slightly, gently. A groan escaped his mouth, right next to hers, at the sensation that he was feeling. He thrust forward again, and another moan left his lips, a moan of helpless need.

He broke the kiss, blinked, and pulled back. His grip on her shoulders tightened, pushing her even harder against the mattress of the small bed, and as he gazed down at her face, his expression changed again, turning back into the assertive, confident Anders she had just seen.

He lifted his right hand from her shoulders—not that it mattered; he was still holding her down firmly with his other—and trailed his fingertips from her waist, down her hips, across the sensitive spot where her legs joined her hips, finally settling directly over her pearl. She knew what was coming—the wicked smile on his face told her—but when he sent a spark of electricity into her, she still groaned and tried to squirm.

With that, his movements became much more aggressive—even rough. Perhaps because he knew that she had borne a child—his child—and also because he could tell _right now_ just how wet she was, and knew that it couldn’t hurt her, he did not hold back, but filled her to the very hilt with every thrust he made. He was taking her as hard as he could.

Caitlyn had to muffle her own cries, remembering their child in the outer room of the clinic, as he moved hard back and forth in her. His fitness and strength were never so apparent to her as they were now, when he was pinning her against the bed so hard that she felt that he might shove her entirely through the mattress and his grip on her shoulders would surely leave marks later. All the while, he thrust rhythmically, his motions punctuated by little gasps—his and hers. As before, she found it amazing—to the extent that she could think clearly—that she was enjoying this so much, but also as before, she understood that she enjoyed this because it _was_ all right to make herself completely vulnerable with him.

She realized, suddenly, that he was doing this more to give himself pleasure and release than to see to hers—and she just _didn’t care._ This was doing exactly what she wanted it to for herself. Perhaps she needed the same thing too, right now. The delicious friction his movements created was sending her rapidly toward a peak. She arched her back, trying to change her angle, and with that, he hit that spot deep inside her that sent her over the edge in a crashing wave of pleasure.

She reached around his head with both arms, trying to hold him against her to dissipate it—but he was not finished yet. The pressure of his hands against her shoulders was suddenly gone, but in the next moment, he was gripping her upper arms. He pinned them to the bed, pressed against either side, and stared down at her as he continued to hammer her. The sensation was too much for her; she let her eyes roll back in her head and surrendered fully, the aftershocks of her own climax mingling with his continued hard movements until he finally had his own release.

He collapsed on top of her shortly after that, the occasional drop of sweat trickling down his body onto hers as they began to plant quick, increasingly lazy open-mouth kisses on each other’s lips, jawlines, and necks. At last his motions stilled.

“It’s just like I remembered,” she said when she could finally speak again. “Maybe better. I don’t recall you _ever_ taking me like _that,_ even the night of that rainstorm.”

He drew back just enough to gaze into her green eyes with his light brown ones. “I suppose that means you would like a repeat someday.”

“Someday soon,” she agreed, kissing him again. “Maker—we’re actually living together, by ourselves, with our child here with us. We don’t have to find hidden spots for quick couplings. We can do this every _night....”_ Caitlyn had been so preoccupied with the earlier events of the day, the mage rescue, the family problems, and her desperate determination to get herself and their child away from a bad situation that she had not even thought much about how this was, on its own, a _good_ situation. More than good.

Anders’ eyes gleamed, though with natural light alone, not Fade-light. “We are,” he said softly, “and yes, we can.” He paused, shifting on top of her as if to roll off her, but an accidental bump against her hip showed that his movement was because of something else.

Caitlyn gaped at him in utter shock at the sensation she had just felt and what it meant. “You’re ready to go again already?” she exclaimed in disbelief as Anders got on his knees between her legs. She rose from the bed to sit upright, staring at him.

He peered back, desire practically beaming from his eyes as he held the base of his quickly hardening erection with one hand. “I’m a Grey Warden now.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“You’ve never heard about the legendary Grey Warden stamina?” he drawled. He leaned forward and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Hmph,” she said, smiling in spite of the harrumph. “Sounds to me like a tall tale for Grey Wardens to tell themselves. And how exactly did you know _you_ had this ‘Warden stamina’?”

“I _didn’t_ know until tonight,” he said. “I thought it might be a tall tale too. But... it is definitely true.” He stared intensely at her. “Are you....”

She honestly did not have the stamina to go again this soon. Later tonight, yes, but not _immediately._ However, that did not mean that there was nothing to be done.

“Are you comfortable kneeling like that?” she asked, a saucy smirk of her own forming on her face as he realized what she intended and his eyes widened in surprise. “Or would you rather have your legs free?”

He considered her question, but only for a moment. In the next, he answered her without words, repositioning himself to be seated, his legs splayed but his knees bent. She replied with a knowing grin and bent down, taking his length in one hand and stroking slowly, focusing on the sensitive tip and the most prominent vein. His responding shiver, his eyes fluttering shut, his jaw set as he grabbed fistfuls of sheets with both hands, delighted and encouraged her. She was afraid she had forgotten how to do this—but what she was doing now was definitely pleasing him.

When she released her grip and descended between his bent legs to take his cock into her mouth, he let out a muffled cry as her lips and then her tongue and—oh so gently—teeth trailed down the extremely sensitive skin. He realized, vaguely—the haze of pleasure was rapidly overtaking him as she worked on him—that she must be enjoying very much indeed to reduce him to this so soon after he had made her beg for him, tied her hands up, held her down, and taken her as hard as possible. He didn’t care.

He was correct. As she watched him fall apart in her hands, shuddering with every lick, suck, and nip of hers, his grip on the sheets tightening and loosening in tandem with each burst of pleasure, isolated beads of sweat forming on his toned chest and slowly trailing down, she found herself growing aroused once again. Yes, she could certainly go for a second round herself before long, at this rate.

She nipped very gently at him, moving her moistened lips in a very slight motion, but that was all it took to undo him. He released the sheets and seized handfuls of her hair with each hand, tangling his fingers between the locks, pulling a bit but not enough to really hurt. She responded by moving her hands back to the base of his erection while continuing to torment him with her mouth. Recalling the spark of static electricity, she summoned just enough heat to her fingertips to make him moan again at the sensation.

“Maker’s flaming breath,” he gasped when she increased the heat level, bringing him almost to a second climax. His grip on her locks of hair tightened, and he pulled harder. She raised her gaze briefly to his. Emerald eyes gazed up at him, the whites fully showing beneath her irises, her eyebrows narrowed. He held his breath; that look felt ominous somehow, though not menacingly so....

With a single motion, she drew back from him, her teeth raking down his cock from the base to the tip, the grip of her fingers tightening in place of her mouth at the same time. He suppressed a yelp as he released again—but she did not pull back entirely, allowing him to spill himself in her mouth without missing a drop.

Anders collapsed forward into her welcoming arms after that, trembling and sweating once again, mumbling almost incoherent praise as she cradled him. “You’re amazing,” he said, his face half-buried in the space between the base of her neck and her shoulder. “Missed this—all of this— _so_ much....”

“So have I,” she whispered, kissing him on top of the head. “I don’t suppose we can make it all up in one night....”

He managed a chuckle. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, but... before long... maybe....” He trailed off, almost embarrassed, but also proud. Grey Warden stamina was definitely real. He was not ready yet for a third time, but he would be.

She kissed him again in approval of the promise inherent in his words. “I know the expedition is soon,” she murmured, “and after that, hopefully we’ll get the house back... our time here is probably going to be brief... but after that, if it works out, I want you to live there with me—it’s very close to your clinic, more or less right above us, and we’ll have a private bedroom in the mansion—”

He cuddled her. “Of course,” he reassured her. “I never want to leave you again.” He caressed her cheek. “And if the expedition is a disappointment....”

“Then we will stay. I’m _not_ going back to my uncle’s house. We should be together, with Mal, wherever we are.”

_She really has chosen me,_ Anders thought, holding her close.  _This is not just a temporary sanctuary from an unpleasant relative, to be endured until she can live well in Hightown. She is here because she wants to be with me, and she will remain here even if Hightown never comes to be._

Caitlyn continued to kiss him languidly on the face, neck, and shoulders, taking in his distinct scent. Apparently the scent of leather remained in his hair even if he was not wearing his coat, and pine as well. The hint of freshly cut plants was centered on his hands, which she supposed made sense. Right at this moment, these fragrances were mingled with the heady scent of sex. It was almost too much for her nose, and  _entirely_ too much when combined with the stimulation of her sense of touch by the contact of heated skin against heated skin.

“Anders,” she said urgently.

He raised his head and gazed at her. “Hm?”

That was far too knowing a hum. He was teasing her, so she decided to do it right back to him. He was the one with “Warden stamina,” after all. She trailed her hands slowly down his sides, letting them rest on each side of his waist, as she fixed her gaze upon his. “Are you going to be ready?” she challenged, smirking.

He smirked back. “Soon.”

“Then let’s make it sooner.”

His eyes gleamed. They tumbled down on the bed side-by-side, falling into a haze of caresses, kisses, and professions of love. She pressed herself against him from head to toe, relishing his warmth and their closeness. She felt the very moment that he began to grow hard again and nudged against him, drawing moans from him and speeding the process.

“I’ll grant that Warden stamina _is_ apparently real,” she said, smiling, after pressing especially hard against his crotch and making him cry out and roll her onto her back.

He breathed heavily and positioned himself at her entrance, gently pushing her legs apart so that he could settle his between them. “It’s all for you, love.”

She breathed deeply and locked her eyes with his. “Then give it to me,” she demanded.

Anders released a shuddery breath and surged forward, filling her completely with one stroke. They were ready for each other from the past two times, and those two times had also done away with the urgency for a quick, intense climax. Anders and Caitlyn could take their time now, focus on each other, be tender, and draw this out slowly and lovingly.

As much as they had enjoyed their intense, rough first time—and he had enjoyed the personal favor she had given him—this was exactly what they needed now. They punctuated their motions with sweet, tender kisses and gentle caresses of each other’s arms, shoulders, back, and face.

She gave him a hard but passionate kiss where his neck and collarbone joined, eliciting a moan and making his hands—resting on her hips—jerk upward slightly. He collected himself, breathed rapidly, and slid both hands to her core where they were joined.

Caitlyn knew he was going to do it again—and when he sent another jolt of electricity, a stronger one that involved both hands, into her body, it made her gasp and thrash beneath him. But she quickly recovered. She took quick breaths of her own and caressed his face with both hands, her thumbs and forefingers drawing small circles on the tender skin behind his ears while her other fingers rested on his temples and cheeks. She knew that he was expecting heat—so instead she summoned cold to her fingertips.

He yelped, trying to pull away, but she kept him from moving from her. A wry smirk on her face, she switched her magic, bringing heat to her fingertips and warming up the spots that she had just given a jolt of coldness.

“We’ll have to see what else we can do with magic now that we have privacy,” he murmured.

“So many possibilities,” she gasped out, shuddering from his latest thrust and wrapping her legs around his waist tightly to dissipate the wave of pleasure. Indeed, she was already considering the possibilities of a Glyph of Paralysis....

But not right now. Right now, they were making love tenderly and could not be distracted from that reality for long. As they rapidly approached their climaxes, he sped up his pace, making her cry out incoherently in a mix of moans, exclamations of pleasure, and exhortations for him to continue.

“More,” she pleaded. “Harder, Anders—”

Driven by her responses, he intensified his pace even further, harder, until they fell over the edge together. He collapsed on her, both of them shuddering and quaking, and wrapped his arms around her sides as she held his head down and pressed her cheek against his.

Finally they were calm and still, but he found that he did not particularly want to separate from her, and she was making no attempt to move away from him. The bed was meant for one person, anyway, so they would have to curl up very close indeed overnight. Still, he knew that he would have a sore neck the next morning if he actually slept draped on top of her, so he gently rolled onto his side. She repositioned herself to curl into his open arms and pulled the sheets and blanket over them, feeling waves of natural body heat pooling under the covers.

“Let’s do that all the time,” she murmured, caressing his back. It was so lovely and intimate to be this close to him, both of them completely nude, their bodies radiating heat.

Anders suppressed a chuckle. She wouldn’t feel like it _every_ night. Neither, for that matter, would he—that didn’t appear to be how Warden stamina worked—but on the nights that they were both in the mood, he had no doubt that he could repeat tonight. _We do have a lot of catching up to do,_ he thought as he drifted off to sleep, _and I can hardly wait_. It was a pleasant thought, but it quickly shifted to a more tender one: _I never want to be without her again. I said that, but I meant it too._ He planted a final kiss of the night on her left temple.

She smiled, murmured her approval, and nestled closer as they drifted into the Fade.

* * *

Waking up the next morning still in his arms was a lovely feeling. For a brief moment before she had fully left the Fade, Caitlyn thought that this was how it had been for the past four years, that nothing terrible had happened, that it was the loft in the Lothering cabin and Bethany would emerge from the bedroom with her father following from the other door to shake his head wryly at them. Such a scene, after all, was what had happened the last time she had awakened after a night of intimacy with Anders. The realization otherwise saddened her—but just for a minute. _The abject misery of three and a half out of the four years is over. They would be glad we are truly reunited,_ she thought, giving him a light kiss on his forehead. _Bethany always believed that it would happen eventually. You were right, little sister. I just wish you had known this... had someone... yourself. I—we—will make sure that other mages don’t have to hide._

Anders blinked awake, the telltale blue-white flashes of light arcing down his body beneath his skin for a moment. Caitlyn wondered if Justice took over in the Fade. She had never encountered Anders himself there, though before she had decided to shield herself with anger years ago, she had seen many a demon pretending to be. It was possible, if unusual, for two people to actually encounter each other in the Fade through their dreams.

“Good morning, love,” he murmured, pulling her close in a hug for a moment. He stretched fully awake, then remembered that they were both nude. He chuckled as he got out of bed to find his clothes and noticed that she was staring at him. “Your turn now,” he drawled as he attached the fasteners of his coat and pulled his belt tight. He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed pointedly at her— _just as he did last night before the first, rough time,_ she remembered. That look, that particular pose, had nearly driven her wild then.

One side of her mouth turned upward, but she didn’t mind obliging him. Throwing the covers back ostentatiously, she picked up her scattered clothes and put them on, holding the breastband in her hands while gazing at him pointedly. He smirked back as she attached it on her back and then pulled her gown back on. She had other clothes in her crates, but they had more important things to do first—such as eating breakfast, converting the patient bed into Mal’s permanent sleeping arrangement, and, of course, seeing to him.

Something occurred to her at the thought of the crates, and she began to rummage through one. His face lit up as she pulled out the feather hair ornament he had made for her four years ago. She presented it to him, wordlessly asking him to attach it to her shoulder-length hair. _My hair is not long anymore,_ she thought, _but it’s long enough that the pin will stay in it._ Anders attached the pin and then, still grinning ear to ear, pulled the orange-dyed handkerchief out of his belt pouch and tied it around his left upper arm. _Mine again,_ Caitlyn thought in satisfaction and pleasure, _and I’m yours._ She wondered how long it would be before he... _no,_ she thought, stopping herself. _He is not going to offer me the ring again until he is ready to ask that question officially. And even then... how could we actually do it? He is a Grey Warden, but he clearly has enemies among the Templars who don’t care about that, and I’m sure that Meredith Stannard suspects that I am a mage. I don’t see any way to hide the truth, especially since we would have to swear privately to the priest that Anders was Mal’s father for him to be legitimized. That would open up questions about our relationship four years ago. What priest in Kirkwall could we trust to keep our secrets from the zealous Templars?_

Caitlyn realized belatedly that she had allowed her thoughts to run away with her in spite of her resolution against that.

Still, they could hardly keep away from each other that morning, giving each other frequent quick hugs and kisses, and resting one arm around the other’s waist whenever they had a moment. The little boy was pleased at the sight of so much parental affection. Caitlyn realized, with a pang, that he had not observed the people around him showing much affection of any kind until now. Bethany had been affectionate, but she was not sure how much Mal would actually remember of her beyond images and vague memories. She and Carver were definitely not affectionate to each other as siblings. Their mother had been, though, and Caitlyn supposed that Mal knew it was a good thing because of his grandmother.

_Even if the Deep Roads expedition is a bust,_ she thought,  _Anders and I will be all right. He will be paid as a Warden, if nothing else. We might someday be able to get a little place in Lowtown if we can save up enough—or if the expedition provides enough treasure for that but not for the Amell estate._ She recalled a job she had heard of, an Orlesian mine owner who was having problems at his mine. She meant to look into it soon; depending on the nature of the problems, if she could negotiate a share of the mine’s profits, that might be a decent source of income in combination with Anders’ Warden stipend. Nevertheless, these were fallback measures that would come with a significant sacrifice: Failing to become important and influential in Kirkwall would limit their ability to affect the lot of mages in general, which was why she was still determined on the expedition even though she was free of Gamlen Amell and did not have to scrape for borderline-criminal work to do.  _However it happens,_ she resolved,  _whether we live in high style or remain of modest means, Mal will have a loving home and good adult examples in his life. This, I swear._

“Father,” Mal spoke up, “I like your coat.”

Anders smiled and stroked the feathers on one side. “Thanks. It’s stylish, isn’t it?”

Caitlyn shook her head in feigned exasperation at his vanity, but she liked this coat too. The one he had worn in Lothering was longer and much more similar to mage’s robes, though this one was based on robes too, but she liked the raffish, rebellious look of this one more. And those feathers... one of these days, she would like to make love fully clothed again, like their second-ever time in Lothering, just to feel those feathers tickling her....

“It is,” Mal said, giggling, bringing his mother back to the present. “Could you... do you think I could have one like it?”

Anders grinned. “We shall see,” he said, ruffling the child’s reddish-blond hair.

Mal beamed.

* * *

Neither of them was that surprised when Carver showed up at the clinic door later that day, looking resentful and ashamed. “I just wanted you to know, first of all,” he said as he strode into the clinic, “that I tried to tell Mother... but she wanted to ask you if you would consider coming back h—to Lowtown,” he corrected himself at once, not wanting to say the word “home.”

Caitlyn shook her head. “Our uncle has had all the chances he’s going to get from me. Last night was the last straw as far as I’m concerned... and besides, Anders and I _should_ be living together in a place where we can have some privacy. With Mal. It’s rather strange for a committed couple to sleep two feet away from the _mother_ of one of them.”

“I told you, I tried to explain this to her,” Carver said, glowering. “She doesn’t want to understand.” He scowled again. “I always thought she just didn’t want _me_ ever to strike out on my own, but she seems to be the same way about you too.”

Caitlyn was surprised that he would lay it out like that, and in truth, she had not considered that herself until now. “I think you’re right,” she said. “Mother... has difficulty with that.”

“Right, then,” Carver replied. “In that case, I’ll take the message back to her. Morning, Anders,” he finally said. He smiled at his young nephew. “And you too.”

“Good morning, Uncle Carver,” Mal said nicely.

“Carver,” Caitlyn said, “you should know something about the Deep Roads expedition fund.” She took a breath as he raised his eyebrows questioningly; suddenly she realized that he might not like this news for personal reasons. “Anders had a lot of coin stored away from his Grey Warden salary. He has made up the deficit—both what our uncle stole from us, and the ten we were already lacking.”

Carver’s scowl deepened. “Oh, did he?” he managed to get out. He looked at Anders, though it was essentially a glare. “I’m obliged, then. I’m sure Mother will be _thrilled_ to hear that we don’t have to do any more _dangerous_ jobs.” He breathed heavily. “And speaking of her, I really should go.”

_That went over about as badly as I feared,_ Caitlyn thought. “Are you... all right with that?” she asked. “You didn’t  _already_ make a deal with the Carta, did you?”

“No,” he said with a glower. “I haven’t done a thing. And I guess now I don’t have to, thanks to ‘Anders, hero of the Hawke family’ again. See you later.” Without waiting for any of them to speak, he stormed out the door of the clinic, closing it hard behind him.

Caitlyn scowled. “Sorry about him. He probably wanted to try to earn it himself to prove his ‘worth’ or some such.”

“I actually understand that,” Anders said.

“So do I,” she agreed, “but that was no reason to... ah, never mind.” She managed a smile. “We’ll be able to buy in. Nobody is stopping him from doing whatever he wants in town. The difference is that any coin he earns is all his now. He should like that, at least, once he thinks about it.”

* * *

Late that night, after they had bathed—Anders had a larger washtub than Uncle Gamlen did, and it was great fun to cast snow and ice into it and then heat it to a nice warm temperature with fire spells—and Mal was in bed, they retired to their own room and climbed into the small bed, pressed against each other side-by-side. They were not quite in the mood just yet, and both Anders and Caitlyn wanted to talk first.

“I was thinking,” she said, opening the discussion. “Perhaps it took last night—being intimate again—for me to truly realize this, but I had been worried about something after....” She took a deep breath; they had mostly avoided this topic in conversation, especially since they saw Isabela often in town and Caitlyn still felt the need to act possessive of Anders in her presence to discourage any attentions from her, but it had to be broached eventually. “After Leliana. And Karl, for you.”

He raised his eyebrows curiously. “Oh?” He had a feeling he knew what she was going to say, at least the substance of it.

“Yes. I was worried—I had kissed boys before you, and one girl, but obviously _this_ is different. And after her—well, I didn’t really think of this until I met you again here in Kirkwall, but after _that,_ I was worried that I might want female company too. That you might not be ‘enough.’ I... feel better about this now. I don’t need ‘variety.’ I need _you._ I want _you._ After last night, I realized that. You satisfy me. More than satisfy.”

Anders was smiling. He seemed to understand, and perhaps even anticipate her words. She wondered, hopefully, if he might have experienced the same kinds of thoughts himself. _He’ll share if he has,_ she thought.

“And there is something else. I don’t know if it is the same for you, but... well,” she fumbled for her words, “I think there are degrees, perhaps. Leliana... she was a bard in Orlais, but to the best of my knowledge, she has only had three partners about whom she truly cared. Another female bard... me… and Lady Cousland. I don’t _know_ this, but I would guess that she’s more attracted to women than to men even if she _can_ be attracted to both. I... think I am the opposite. What I feel for you is much more intense than what I felt for her. I mean... I have only a single case of each to judge by,” she laughed, “and ultimately it doesn’t matter, because as I said, I want _you.”_

Anders hugged her and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, then released her and stretched his arms—already bare, as they had undressed—in front of him on the bed. “I wish there were books about attraction,” he said. “Books other than spicy novels. Maybe they know something at the University of Orlais, but I would not count on it. In the absence of anything like that, I guess all we can do is speculate. I... do not think I am _exactly_ the same as you, _more_ attracted to the opposite sex, if we’re talking about raw physical appeal. I feel... well, fairly even, but again, when it comes to partners I _cared_ about, I’ve also only got one case of each, so that could be influencing my perceptions. That is a factor too, I would think—caring about somebody.”

“It does make me want you even more,” she agreed, smiling at him.

He pulled her close. “But I think you’re right. It doesn’t matter and we don’t need to worry about it. I don’t need _anyone_ else, man or woman, to feel ‘satisfied’ when I am with you.”

She returned the embrace. “That was what I decided,” she said, “and it was an immense relief. I did worry about this until... well, today.” She hesitated uneasily; this next question might be rather too personal, but it was still nagging at her, and she felt that it was better to ask. “There is one thing,” she said, wincing. “Leliana... there’s nothing she could do that you couldn’t. But that’s not the case for me. You and Karl—are you, erm, going to miss any specific type of—”

Anders realized that this was deeply uncomfortable for her. He also realized that the question itself was embarrassing for her to ask, probably because she thought it was none of her business and worried that he would be angered at her intrusiveness, even if she was asking out of worry rather than prurient curiosity. “No,” he said at once. “I... had boundaries. Maybe if I hadn’t yet known you, hadn’t had a child with you, I might’ve tried everything. But as it was, there was a line that was just too far, because I always had you in the back of my mind.” He gazed at her. “I feel terrible about him, even now,” he said, cringing. “The Templars were the ones who did that to him, but he  _ did  _ die because he knew me, and I was never even fully his.” He sighed. “I have tried to move on and keep him, your father, your sister, and all the other mages who died because of this wicked system—even indirectly—in mind when I consider our ultimate goals, but I’ll probably never lose the guilt that I got him mutilated and never even gave my heart entirely to him. But it was to keep from feeling  _ too  _ guilty about  _ you.” _

Caitlyn hugged him. “Anders, think of it this way. Even if you didn’t give him all of your heart, he knew what a meaningful relationship was because of you. And you mustn’t blame yourself. For all you know, the Templars here would have done that to him anyway. You remember what Ser Thrask said.”

“Ah, yes. I should pick his brains for more information. If the one who did that to Karl is still alive....” He trailed off darkly.

She completely agreed with his unspoken threat—provided that he could do it without endangering himself too much—but she didn’t want him to become distracted with _vengeance_ right now. “This talk about guilt leads to, well, the other thing about all of this. I was also worried about the fact that we had _not_ actually split up—we were separated forcibly by others, unwillingly—and yet we still turned to others because we were lonely.” She sighed. “It still worries me, honestly. I have no good answers for that part. I know I wouldn’t have looked elsewhere—and you wouldn’t have either—if we had been together still and happy, but... what if we’re together and unhappy? Together in name, but lonely?”

He sighed. “I don’t have a good answer for that either. We’ll just have to keep that from happening. But I do know this, Cait, love: The risk you’re talking about is not unique to us. We’re in no more danger of it than others, despite the past. As you said, we were  _separated_ and genuinely did not know if we would ever see each other again. The situation you’re worried about would be different. And”—he winced, but it had to be said—“this I swear. I will not cheat on you. I hope we never, ever have to... but if it’s ever that bad, and there is no way to fix it, we should just....” He trailed off, but she did not need him to finish. She knew what he had left unsaid.

It was unpleasant to her too, but she was glad that he said it. She caressed his cheek gently. “I promise that too, love. I will always be honest with you, not underhanded. And I will try  _everything_ before letting you go.” She smiled wryly. “But best not to let it ever come to that. I know that we can’t take each other for granted, above all.”

He leaned in to kiss her. “If you are ever feeling lonely, that I’m becoming distant from you or otherwise not doing what I should for us, just tell me.”

“I will,” she promised, hugging him. “And you do the same, love.” She paused for a moment before smiling wryly. “I promise I won’t throw a fireball at you.”

“I will, and I’ll hold you to that promise,” he said teasingly. She laughed; the conversation had become very heavy, and she was glad of the sudden note of levity. “Save your flames for more intimate moments.”

She raised her eyebrows at him in a smirk. “Oh, is that what you want?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” She climbed on top of him, still wearing her smalls and breastband, but doubtful that they would remain on her body for much longer, especially after his hands found their way to her back and began to fumble with the clasp....

* * *

He let her fall asleep in his arms that night, cuddling her against his chest, their legs tangled together under the blankets. It was wonderful to have this, Anders thought—and for a moment, he wished that it could last for the rest of their lives. No Deep Roads expedition, no struggles for mage rights—because as much as he wanted to make that change, he knew that it would be a difficult battle that would probably test his morals and devastate his emotions sometimes. No Kirkwall politics, certainly no Templar allies of necessity, just Caitlyn, Mal, and he—and the dog. _And I wish I could have a cat again,_ he thought. Briefly he had had a kitten, but little Ser Pounce-a-Lot had been left behind in Amaranthine. _I always liked the idea of a simple life,_ he thought, gently adjusting her on his body. _But that was before Malcolm, before Caitlyn, before Karl, before Bethany, before Justice. And before little Mal._

The simple life would not last long, he knew—or if it did, it would be because the Deep Roads treasure was a disappointment. In that case... they probably would have to leave Kirkwall altogether to protect Caitlyn and, most likely, Mal. No, their simple life here in the clinic needed to be brief.  _But it is a golden chance for us to develop our relationship without too many distractions,_ he thought.  _Maker knows we’ll have enough of those later if everything happens the way we want it to. This time should be for us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caitlyn is going to be less prone to rage bursts, especially the unproductive kind, now that she has this. :-) Anders knows how to release much of her tension, all right.


	19. The Eyes of a Cat in the Black and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration is “Holy Diver” by Dio.
> 
> NaNoWriMo: **56,967 words! Success!**
> 
> A special note regarding this chapter. Some of you are probably going to side-eye, at a minimum, at what I set in motion here, because it’s a very edgy thing to do in the game and—in the game—isn’t obviously a pro-mage action (though it’s not anti-mage, either). Please give it a chance to pan out thoroughly in the sequel, and know this: I’m _not_ going to bait-and-switch on the story’s overarching viewpoint concerning the “mage rights” topic. I’m just making some leaps of inference for an AU, developing some supporting characters who are not developed enough beyond the very limited story arc they’re used for in the game.
> 
> For readers’ ease, know that I’m using specific capitalization conventions: “Qunari” for “one who follows the Qun,” and “qunari” for the (usually) horned northern race.

The very next day, Caitlyn returned to the mine owner, accepting the task to investigate the missing miners—and almost wished she had not, once she arrived at the place. The crew had been attacked by dragons, all of which had to be killed. One dragon in particular was quite powerful, and although Caitlyn went out with Varric, Carver, and—thinking it advisable to put the past behind her, since she and Anders were thoroughly reconciled—Isabela, this dragon targeted Caitlyn specifically once she began to cast frost spells at it, identifying her as the greatest threat to itself. The dragon was correct, as she was indeed the one to cast the killing blow against it. However, there would be no salvaging these badly singed robes. She was just glad that she had covered her head with a runed cap, or else she might have lost some of her hair too.

Nonetheless, after slaying the dragons—and skinning them, where possible, to have valuable dragon hide and other body parts—she managed to shame the survivors into going back to work, and, more importantly, got what she was hoping for from the owner: a part-ownership. _Anders is going to be furious when he sees these burns,_ she thought, trying not to pop a large red blister on her thigh that was visible through the burn hole in her robe. _He is going to be utterly furious that I risked myself fighting dragons when the Deep Roads expedition is already funded. I will just have to convince him that the ownership share and the dragon hide made it worth it. And it’s not too shabby to be a dragonslayer, after all! How many people can say that?_

When the group returned to the city, Varric and Isabela departed for the Hanged Man. Caitlyn headed toward Darktown, accompanied by her brother—who, to do him justice, did have a lot of family feeling and was making a point of visiting his nephew. She approved of that and was glad that he didn’t hold it against her that she had stormed out of Uncle Gamlen’s house, as their mother seemed to.  _She_ hadn’t paid her daughter or grandson a visit in the days since they had left. Caitlyn tried to suppress her resentment of her mother’s behavior as they approached the clinic.

Anders opened the door and then gawked at Caitlyn and Carver in shock. “What in the utter Void  _happened_ to you?” he exclaimed, ushering them in. Carver also sported a mild burn, but Caitlyn had been clobbered. As he ushered her onto a patient bed, shaking his head, she noticed that Mal too was shocked at his mother’s battered appearance.

She braced herself for the explosion. “Good news first: I am now a part-owner of the Bone Pit Mine,” she told him.

He examined the robes to determine that they were not melted or charred into her flesh, then gently began to tear the shreds of fabric away, professionally unconcerned that her brother could see her smalls now. “At a heavy price! What was going  _on_ there?” he exclaimed, reaching for burn salve to apply to the bad blister on her thigh.

“Dragons,” she said.

Mal gasped, awed by his mother. His only experience with a dragon, she recalled, was the dragon form of Flemeth. Anders stopped rubbing the ointment on her and gazed up sharply. “Dragons, more than one?” He gazed at Carver, identifying the blister he sported, but it was obvious that she had taken the brunt of the dragonfire. “Did you slay them all by yourself? It looks like it. Who else was with you?” At this, Carver scowled heavily at the Healer.

“I did _not_ slay them all by myself,” she said. “There were many dragonlings and three big ones, including one fully grown. Carver, Varric, and Isabela all killed dragonlings and helped with the others. Yes, I did take down the biggest one—and it _wouldn’t_ hurt you to offer congratulations instead of scolding, you know.”

Anders looked down and resumed his healing work, suddenly aware of his reaction and embarrassed about it. “I’m proud of you,” he said at once, meaning it. “It’s quite an accomplishment! I’ve slain dragonlings myself, in the Architect’s lair in Amaranthine, but not a big one. I don’t mean to detract from that... but Maker, it looks like it got you right across the midsection.”

“It did,” she said grimly. “But I won in the end.” She smiled weakly at him as he cast a powerful blast of healing magic, one so strong that it actually caught Carver in its aura, healing his minor burn. Anders’ eyes turned bluish-white. _That must be a Spirit Healing spell,_ she thought, _enhanced by Justice._

Anders heaved his breath as his eyes returned to normal. “Yes,” he said, steadying himself. “I don’t mean to... it’s not that I don’t think you can handle yourself... Maker, I just worry about you, love, and then you come in with your robes half burned off, telling me about dragonslaying!” He managed a chuckle, but a grimace still filled his face.

“Well,” she said, taking his hand and rubbing circles on the back of it, “the good news is that the dragons were the reason why the miners weren’t working. Now that the dragons are gone, they’re back to work, turning a profit—which I will share from now on. A reliable income that doesn’t depend on fighting street gangs!”

He sighed, rubbing tension out of his forehead. “That’s a good thing, then. You know... if the expedition doesn’t work out... we could probably save enough coin from this and my Warden stipend to get a place of our own in Lowtown eventually.”

Caitlyn smiled sadly at him. “That’s a sweet idea, Anders, but we wouldn’t be able to achieve our other goal if we did that.”

He returned a sad smile of his own. “I know. And I know that’s our responsibility, if possible.”

Carver cleared his throat, not wanting to talk about this “other goal,” which he knew meant working for mage rights. In his view, his sister was just endangering herself if she did that... but ultimately, he supposed, it was her decision.  “In addition to the mine share, we have the hide, horn, and other parts,” he put in, thumping the pack on his back. “All of us got some of that. I’m having mine turned into better armor.”

“Hmm,” Anders mused, eyeing the pack that Caitlyn had set down at the door. “Some dragon components are useful for healing.”

“You’re welcome to anything that you can use,” she said.

Mal climbed down from his bed and crept toward his mother’s pack, staring at it in awe, then looked up at her with wide eyes. “Was the big one the dragon we saw in Ferelden? The one that turned into the witch lady that brought us to the ships?” he asked innocently.

She shook her head, opening her arms to him. He climbed into her arms, hugging her, glad to have her home, as she replied. “No, darling,” she said. “That was a mage who could change her shape into a dragon. The one I killed today was a real dragon that hatched out of a dragon egg.”

“She said that she might really be a dragon,” Mal said.

Caitlyn was shocked that he remembered that so well; she had almost forgotten that particular comment of Flemeth’s herself—but then, that would be a trauma seared into the poor little boy’s mind, and he  _was_ highly intelligent, after all. “Oh, Mal,” she said soothingly, “she was just trying to scare us. She helped us, but she wasn’t a very nice person. She didn’t save Aunt Bethany, after all. That’s why she said it. It’s all right, anyway. I won’t be fighting any more dragons.”  _Let’s hope,_ she added to herself in thought.

“I should go,” Carver remarked, feeling out of place. “Thanks for the healing, Anders. That’s a powerful spell.”

“Uncle Carver,” Mal spoke up, gazing at him. “Doesn’t Grandma want to see us anymore?”

Carver grimaced. “I’ll talk to your grandmother.”

“Is she angry at us?”

“Not you,” he assured the child. “And not your father.”

“But she is angry at Mamma,” Mal guessed. Holding him, Caitlyn scowled.

Carver sighed. “She isn’t happy with your mother. She’s wrong, though. I’ll try to make her understand that.”

“Carver,” Caitlyn spoke up, “she _has_ to realize, what she was asking of me was unreasonable.”

“I agree. But you know how she is.” He glowered at the floor again. “At least you had an alternate place to live and means of support. I don’t know how in the Void _I’m_ ever going to....” He trailed off, sighing. “Not your problem. Later, sis.”

Once he was gone, Anders came over, sitting down next to them and draping an arm across Caitlyn’s shoulders. “I really am proud of you,” he said again. “I mean that. But I’m also worried. I really think you should learn at least the basic healing spell, just in case anything like this ever happens again and I’m not with you at the time. It’s better than taking potions; it actually knits injuries back together.”

Caitlyn considered that before nodding. “You’re probably right,” she said. “Let’s start that tomorrow.”

* * *

The next day was a slow day for patients, which was a relief to the little family, as they finally were able to take care of some domestic matters that they had postponed. Anders and Caitlyn managed to knock a second nook into the wall, opening up a room for Mal, and slid his bed and possessions into it to make it homelike. He was pleased, celebrating having a room of his own by playing with the dog and basically making a pest of himself whenever a patient _did_ come to the door. Fortunately the patients were not too sick or injured today, and found the Grey Warden Healer’s little son to be cute, but Anders lost his patience after Mal spilled a jar of elfroot balm that he was not supposed to touch.

“I want to be a Healer,” the child muttered in complaint as Anders finally lifted him up and set him down on his bed.

“Maybe someday you can be,” Anders replied, “but what you need most right now is a nap.”

Mal pouted. “I’m not sleepy at all! I want to play with Baldwin.” The mabari let out a bark of approval, wagging his tail.

Caitlyn scowled. “Whose side are _you_ on?” she scolded her dog. The mabari whimpered, tucking his tail between his legs, and hung his head.

“He’s on the side of the one who wants to play with him,” Anders replied. “A cat, now....”

“A cat would be on the side of the one who _fed_ him,” Caitlyn said.

“I want to play, and he wants me to,” Mal continued. “You’re just being mean, both of you. I’m not sleepy.” He yawned, making his parents grin wryly.

“Yes, you are,” Caitlyn replied as he closed his mouth. She raised her hand and cast a gentle sleep spell, not strong enough to knock him out immediately, but definitely enough to make him settle on his pillow and close his eyes of his own accord.

Anders collapsed on a stiff chair. “Maker’s breath,” he exclaimed, gazing at her. “I haven’t wanted to tell you this, but those times you’ve left him with me.... I don’t know how you did it alone for three years.”

She smirked. “Maybe I’m just better at it.”

“Hmph.” He smiled. “I can’t argue with that. Now... the healing spell?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Tell me everything you know, Healer.”

“Everything?” he teased.

“Everything that’s necessary to do this spell,” she amended.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “first of all, the spell to heal injuries to the flesh is, in many ways, more the direct opposite of nature damage than entropic decay, which you do well, so....” He trailed off, giving her an overview of creation magic theory before casting the basic spell itself for her to sense through her connection the Fade.

They were interrupted a couple of times, but by the end of the day, Caitlyn was able to cast it. It was nothing like the healing that he could do, but then, he had practiced this magic for years, understood anatomy and physiology in depth as well as specific spells to target body parts and processes,  _and_ had the assistance of a Fade spirit. What mattered was that she would not be wholly dependent anymore on a stock of potions when she was hurt and he was not there.

Later that day, Carver returned to the clinic with news that surprised everyone there: Leandra was inviting them to dinner at the house in Lowtown, and Uncle Gamlen would not be there to spoil the proceedings. She understood that they would return home afterward, Carver asserted—but she did want to see them.

“What do you think?” Anders asked. “She’s your mother.”

Caitlyn considered briefly before nodding. “I’d better accept this invitation. If she misled Carver about expecting us to stay—or changes her mind once we get there—then I’ll deal with her. I also think she needs to deal with her unreasonable fears and visit  _us._ But perhaps this is a start.”

* * *

“So,” she said once she was at the house with her family, “where _is_ Uncle Gamlen tonight? Or do I want to know?”

“He is at the docks,” she replied. “He got a job unloading cargo.”

“Smuggling,” Carver muttered.

“Hmph,” Caitlyn said, surprised. She had honestly expected her mother to say that he was at a bar, a gambling house, or a brothel. “I suppose that’s a good thing. He has to pay for his own habits now, after all. But... let’s not talk about him.”

“Have you been safe in that place?” Leandra asked her daughter worriedly.

Caitlyn scowled. “Mother, ‘that place’ is where Anders has lived ever since he came here. You are insulting him every time you talk about it that way.”

She blanched. “I don’t mean  _that!_ You aren’t offended, are you, Anders dear?”

He immediately drew back, not wanting to be in the middle of this. Caitlyn continued mercilessly. “He’s too nice to say it, Mother, but it’s true. You insult his  _home._ And no, we have not been attacked. Nobody has threatened us at all. It’s been peaceful and pleasant—and you have to accept that we are a  _couple,_ just like you and Father were. We need our privacy, and since Anders  _does_ have a home of his own, it’s only logical that we should be there instead of here.”

“But the house in Hightown—you mean you won’t be joining us there?” she cried.

“That house is big enough that we can all have private rooms. That’s different.”

She closed her eyes, sighing. “I just worry every morning, knowing that you, Anders, and Mal are there. It’s Darktown, Cait.”

“But Anders’ clinic is magically protected. We are safer than probably anyone in Darktown and most people in Lowtown.”

Leandra heaved a huge sigh, but it was one of resignation. “Very well. But it is a mother’s job to worry. You will understand once Mal is older.”

“I understand _now,”_ she replied sharply, “but that doesn’t change the fact that he and I are both safer in Anders’ clinic than here, for several reasons. Uncle Gamlen’s associates are shifty, Mother. _They_ are more likely to menace us than anyone who comes into the clinic... or blackmail him, or decide to make a quick sovereign by turning in a mage! We’re even safer from Templars there. If we are there, it means Anders is there too, and we could fight them off more easily if they showed up—or Anders could even invoke his Grey Warden status to protect us.” She decided not to tell her mother what Anders _really_ meant to do with his Grey Warden status if it came to that.

She nodded, finally accepting her daughter’s words. “Very well,” she said. “You make sense.”

Anders stepped forward, placing a hand around Caitlyn’s waist. “We’re safer together, Mistress Hawke. I would protect Cait and Mal with my life.”

“Of course,” she said. “I never doubted _that,_ dear.”

“I’m glad we’ve come to this understanding, then,” Caitlyn said sincerely. “My decision is made, Mother. I wish you would visit us yourself and see how it is.”

“Perhaps,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps if Carver would escort me there....”

Carver sighed and rolled his eyes, but he seemed to have expected that.

* * *

As the small family and dog stepped out into the crisp night, Anders tensed. He stared across the alleyway. “There is a Chantry sister at that house,” he said in a hard voice. “She’s staring at us.”

Caitlyn looked up. The person she had formerly taken to be a neighbor dressed in red—the one she had mistaken for a Templar weeks ago—was actually wearing full Chantry robes now. Was this a real neighbor at all? Wouldn’t Chantry priests and sisters live at the cathedral?  _Or is it a criminal posing as a sister?_ she wondered. She felt queasy at the realization that her mage’s staff was strapped to her back and projected past her head, obviously identifiable as a staff. Would the woman try to take her away?

Well, best to have it out right now, if that was what the woman intended. She strode across the alley. “Can I help you?” she said coolly.

The sister—if she truly was that—was fairly young. Her blonde hair was streaked with silver, but her skin was smooth. “I have watched you for some time,” she said, her voice shrewd and clever. “Until, of course, you and your child left this house a few days ago.”

Caitlyn gazed hard at the woman. “Indeed. And why have you done that? What is your interest in me?”

“Nothing... untoward,” the woman replied. Her sharp gaze flickered to the mage’s staff and back down to Caitlyn’s face. “My bodyguard and I are in need of special assistance, and your reputation precedes you.”

_“Does_ it. My reputation as what, exactly?” Behind her, Anders was edging forward, having urged Carver to take Mal back inside the house.

The—sister?—examined him, her eyebrows momentarily knitting together, but her face smoothed out quickly. “You are known in certain quarters for your work in the smuggling business,” she said, “and yes, I see that you have... additional abilities.”

At that, Anders reached for his staff. “If you mean to threaten her, you’re picking a fight with the wrong people.”

The sister drew back. “I’m doing nothing of the sort, Grey Warden,” she said sharply. “Yes, I know who you are too. I assure you, I am not an enemy of mages. In fact, I thought to ask your assistance in helping a mage escape to safety.”

Anders was suddenly shocked. Whatever he had expected, that had not been it. Caitlyn considered before responding. “Are you really a Chantry sister?” she asked. “If so, what are you doing here?”

“Yes, I am a Chantry sister,” the woman replied. “My name is Petrice Durand—Sister Petrice—and the reason I am here, in this safe house, is because the nature of my present task of charity is... rather dangerous to _certain_ elements in this city.”

“The Knight-Commander?” Anders ventured, still in shock, but able to speak now.

“The Knight-Commander and more,” Sister Petrice said. “I am sure that you have not failed to notice that....” She glanced around sharply, making sure that no one else was listening in the neighborhood. “...That the Knight-Commander, Viscount, and Grand Cleric are allowing a contingent of Qunari warriors, led by their military commander, to occupy a well-placed and _very_ defensible building in the shipping district of Kirkwall, with barely an attempt to find out what they intend or hurry them back home!”

“Yes,” Caitlyn said tightly, “I have noticed that. I suppose you have some insight into this?”

“Other than that they are all fools?” Petrice said. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. There are many who choose to turn a blind eye to certain things that the oxmen do. I, for my part, cannot.”

Caitlyn recalled what she had learned of the Qun from her own reading and from conversations with Fenris, who had lived among them briefly and knew a great deal about them due to his status as a former Tevinter slave. “I certainly know what they do to women, their prohibition on families and romantic couples, and, of course, what they do to mages,” she said. She remembered what the sister had said. “You mentioned helping a mage escape. Are you saying that you have a—” 

“Hush!” Petrice exclaimed, eyes wide. “People may be listening! They have sympathizers, you know, who are afraid to speak openly of their treasonous loyalties. But—yes. He is inside the house.” She considered. “I have named him Ketojan. He has been treated very cruelly by his own people—but this mage will be a fine example of how cruel they _are,_ even to their own.”

“And you want me to help him escape.”

“Yes,” Petrice said. “Please, come inside and meet him.”

Anders and Caitlyn followed her inside the small house, remaining on their guard, all the more so when they saw a Templar standing guard by the chained, silent qunari mage. Anders was appalled at the sight of the mage, his horns cut off, the collar still around his neck. Caitlyn guessed that this shocking sight was all that kept him from exploding at the Templar.

“This is my bodyguard, Ser Varnell,” Petrice said.

Anders’ attention was finally distracted from the qunari. “You are a Templar,” he said, lips curling faintly. “I suppose, since you are a part of this, that you are not one of Meredith’s cronies.”

Caitlyn groaned inwardly at his bluntness, but the man did not seem offended. “I became a Templar because it was a good career option, Grey Warden,” he said. “If I wanted to hunt and harass mages in Kirkwall, it wouldn’t be that difficult to do, now would it?”

“I... suppose it wouldn’t.” He was rather awed at the situation, and it was apparent in his face.

“You will take the job, then?” Petrice said urgently.

Caitlyn took a deep breath. Something about this seemed a bit too convenient... but... “Yes,” she said.  _I’ll involve the entire team if I can, just in case._

To Caitlyn’s astonishment, Anders was delighted. She never would have thought it of him, but perhaps the opportunity to help a mage overwhelmed everything else.

* * *

Anders was taking care of Mal while Caitlyn sat in the Hanged Man with the rest of their associates to discuss this scheme. She had convinced everyone to join in except Aveline, who disapproved of Viscount Dumar’s blind accommodation of a foreign co-head of state who would not explain what he wanted, but who still felt that her duties as a city guard would not permit her to ethically participate in this. To her surprise, even Fenris had agreed to go along, despite his previous association with the Qunari and his general distrust of mages. Apparently locking them in chains and mutilating them was too far even for him, now that he knew a few mages who were decent.

“Hmm,” Varric said, “if she’s who she says she is, she has an interesting background. Fallen Orlesian nobility, in fact.”

“Interesting indeed,” Caitlyn said. “I suppose that might explain why she doesn’t have a problem with mages.”

Aveline—who was still at the meeting, even though she would not be part of the operation—nodded. “It’s true. There are said to be many secret mages among the lesser Orlesian nobility, trained by apostates to control their powers, and of course, the higher nobles often have Court Mages.”

“Leliana told me about the Great Game,” Caitlyn mused. When everyone at the table except Carver gave her confused glances, she clarified herself. “A former Orlesian bard whom I knew in Ferelden.”

“You think this sister might be playing the Game?” Varric guessed.

Caitlyn frowned in contemplation. “I don’t know. Something about it bothers me... I can’t help but wonder if there is another ‘game’ going on that I don’t know about... and yet, even if she  _is_ doing that, it means she’s someone to be reckoned with. Someone who is  _not_ trying to get ahead by kissing the hem of Meredith Stannard’s robes.”

Varric raised his eyebrows in respect. “Interesting. You think she has higher ambitions.”

Caitlyn decided on her course at that moment. “A former Orlesian noble whose family lost everything, forcing her to join the Chantry to survive? Yes. And so do I. Let’s do this.”

As the meeting broke apart, with Aveline returning to the Viscount’s Keep, she was very glad that Anders had not been here for this. She was a bit surprised at her own degree of calculation in using her friends and even  _hinting_ at what she just had, especially since she did anticipate  _some_ sort of double-cross, but she had been honest with her friends about her suspicions, and this seemed like an opportunity of the sort that Flemeth herself had hinted at.

* * *

In the end, Carver was not part of the attempt to smuggle Ketojan out of Kirkwall. Anders had wanted to go along as soon as Caitlyn had told him what had transpired at the Hanged Man, as well as her own suspicions, and that had left her to bully her brother to take care of her son. He clearly did not like it—not because he disliked the little boy, but because he did not like being made to baby-sit while his older sister took on dangerous tasks. However, he was not about to argue with Anders, and Caitlyn was the one that Sister Petrice had actually hired, so she  _couldn’t_ back out.

The trap that Caitlyn had suspected became apparent as soon as they emerged from a tunnel to find a band of Qunari seemingly waiting for them, intending to kill all six of the group plus the qunari mage himself—them for being “corrupted” by contact with a loose “saarebas,” and Ketojan for being away from his captor for any amount of time.

Anders was utterly disgusted. For a moment he was unable even to respond to the Qunari provocation, but over the next few seconds, that changed. Bluish-white lightning crackled under his skin, his eyes turned the same color, and the blue Fade-fires that Caitlyn had last seen that terrible night in the Kirkwall Chantry flamed across his body as Justice took over.

_“You will not touch any of us!”_ he roared with Justice’s voice. The Qunari were startled, and that moment of shock gave the rest of the group an advantage that they kept throughout the fight.

As Caitlyn attacked the qunari mage’s keeper, she could not help but notice that—other than Anders, or Justice, whichever of them it was—Isabela was the one of her companions who most enjoyed felling the horned warriors. That was unexpected to her; she had not gotten the impression that the pirate cared about any cause or ideology. She wondered what the story behind this was—but she could not speculate about it in the heat of battle, especially after learning the hard way that qunari were very resistant to her signature spell, fire.

At last they were all dead, however—all except Ketojan. He had become unbound in the battle, able to speak at last. Anders heaved his breath as Justice retreated from his consciousness, horrified, staring at Caitlyn as though ready to kill the qunari if he raised a hand against her—but that did not seem to be the qunari’s intent.

“I am unbound,” Ketojan said. “It is odd... wrong... but you deserve honor.”

Caitlyn shook her head. “It’s not wrong. I am a mage too. It doesn’t have to be this way for people like us. They brainwashed you... you deserve freedom just as every other innocent person does....”

The qunari shook his head. “You are now Basvaarad, worthy of following. I thank your intent, even if it was wrong.”

Caitlyn and Anders tried to stop the qunari, but they could not. With a single spell, he set fire to himself, and there was nothing they could do but watch as he burned to ashes.

* * *

The group gathered outside Sister Petrice’s house menacingly. Caitlyn slammed the door open hard. The sister and the Templar were packing up, which did not surprise her at all.

“You’re alive!” exclaimed Varnell.

Caitlyn stepped inside the house, her staff in hand. “Surprised by that?” she said coolly.

“Did all of these people participate?” Petrice asked, gazing at the unexpectedly large group.

“They did,” she replied. Behind her, Anders stepped forward, his staff also in hand, but he was not saying a word. Apparently he meant to let her handle this, which she appreciated. She took a deep breath, closing the door behind her just after he slunk in. It would be clear to the sister and Templar that the rest of the group waited outside, but perhaps they would speak more freely without eavesdroppers. “I brought a large group for a reason. I’m not a fool, Sister Petrice.”

Petrice stopped packing abruptly and gestured for Varnell to pause as well. Her eyebrows went up in interest.

“It did seem a little too easy to be true... and then I learned more about your past, playing the Game in Orlais.”

Actual respect filled the sister’s face at that. It was as Caitlyn had hoped. “Sister, you owe me for this.”

Her respect changed to disappointment. “If coin is what you want, then I do have plenty....”

“I’m not interested in your coin,” Caitlyn said. “I have bigger goals than a few sovereigns.”

Petrice considered her, interest renewed. “Go on.”

“You put my life at risk under false pretenses. That I anticipated a trap is beside the point. You owe me as a matter of honor—and it is in your interest not to make an enemy of me,” she said fiercely. “You think the Grand Cleric and Viscount are not tough enough on the Qunari? That they are cruel and mean Kirkwall harm, and that the ‘powers that be’ refuse to see that? You don’t have to _use_ me to make that point, sister. We do not disagree about this.”

“Some deaths are worth it,” she replied.

Caitlyn strode forward, physically menacing the sister as she stood only feet away. “There are other ways to achieve your goals,” she hissed. “I am a mage, a woman, a  _mother,_ daughter, sister, lover—I would lose everything that I value most, everything that I am, if the Qunari conquered our lands and we lived under the Qun! Our ultimate goals are not in opposition. You do not have to get me killed and use my death. You could have a living ally.”

Petrice shook her head sadly. “I understand your point of view, but with all due respect, Hawke, you are an apostate mage and Fereldan refugee, living in Darktown with your lover and illegitimate child. How influential do you truly imagine you can be?”

Caitlyn smiled grimly. “Anders is my child’s father, Sister Petrice. We met years ago. And I am also an Amell of Kirkwall. Yes,” she said as Petrice’s eyebrows flew up, “my mother is Leandra Amell, formerly of Hightown. The one who eloped twenty-four years ago. And I intend to go on an expedition that will enable me to recover the family estate and noble title in less than a fortnight.”

Anders shifted uncomfortably behind her, but did not speak. She sensed his disapproval of what she was doing, but she was sure she would be able to convince him later. What mattered now was seeing this conversation through. “We are both against the Qun, sister. For different reasons, we are both sympathetic to mages—and apparently your Templar bodyguard is, too. You should not use and discard me. You have bigger ambitions than to be a mere priest, taking orders from the likes of Grand Cleric Elthina... don’t you?”

Petrice was genuinely surprised at Caitlyn’s canny, but she did not deny it. “And if I do?” she said. “What are you proposing, Hawke?”

“If all goes as planned, I will be Lady Caitlyn Hawke of Hightown by the end of the year,” she said. “Noble patronage would help you quite a lot, wouldn’t it? Especially a noble who has numerous connections to Lowtown? To achieve certain... ambitions... you would need support of the nobles and the common people. And also,” she added in a sudden flash of inspiration, “I know someone who is close to the Hero of the Blight _and_ a highly placed Orlesian priest named Mother Dorothea.”

Anders shuffled his feet again. Caitlyn guessed that he was probably feeling a flash of jealousy at her reference to Leliana, and her suggestion that she would use her previous relationship in such a way... but that was something she could talk to him about as well, later.

“I believe I know of whom you speak,” the sister mused, intrigued. “That is impressive indeed. Very well, Serah Hawke— _if_ you achieve your goal, and recover your family estate—”

“And _if_ you become an ordained priest as soon as you would like to?” Caitlyn interjected with false sweetness.

Petrice was not offended by Caitlyn’s tone. “Yes,” she said with equal sweetness. “In that case... let’s talk again.”

Anders finally could not stop himself. “Before you shake on this, Caitlyn, there’s something I want to know.” He eyed the sister and Templar. “She is a mage. So am I. And we have a child.”

“And you forgot that we already knew that, Warden Anders?” she said coolly.

“My point is, it doesn’t bother you?”

“One way to get ahead as a member of the Chantry in this city is to report mages. I have not done that,” she replied. “Some of my brothers and sisters in the Maker have become so obsessed with a nonexistent, or overblown, threat that they have become unable to see _real_ threats. In the country of my birth, it is not unusual for mages to live freely among... certain social strata.”

“And I _volunteered_ to serve the sister as her bodyguard instead of chasing down apostates for Meredith,” Varnell put in.

Anders sighed heavily, then scowled. “All right. I just want you two to know—I am here on the orders of the Hero of Ferelden, and Caitlyn is with me, and if you turn on her, you’ll regret it.”

The sister chuckled wryly. “I understand perfectly, Warden.”

* * *

The large group split up to go their separate ways after Caitlyn and Anders emerged from Petrice’s house. They stepped inside the Amell house to pick up Mal and Baldwin first. Caitlyn noticed her brother’s extreme dissatisfaction and resentment, and felt bad for a moment... but unless she had badly miscalculated, she had taken an important step tonight toward achieving her ultimate goal of helping mages to live openly, at least in Kirkwall. Anders was equally dissatisfied, she noticed, but that was for a different reason.

_He’s going to have it out with me when we’re home and Mal is in bed,_ she thought as they headed back to Darktown.  _I know it’s coming and I’d better prepare my arguments._

* * *

Late that night, when they were stretched out on the single bed in their smallclothes, he brought up the subject. “Can we... talk about today?” he asked, attempting to be diplomatic.

“What’s bothering you, love?”

He sighed. “That sister is... she’s dishonorable, Caitlyn. She tried to get you killed. She only decided to ‘ally’ with you once you told her you had noble blood and a path to reclaim the estate and that Mal wasn’t some fatherless ‘bastard’ who would be a dead weight on her ambitions.” He scowled across the blanket. “I don’t like her and I’m astonished that you want to work with her. Ser Thrask was one thing; he was actually sincere, but... this?”

“I’m not fond of her _personally_ either,” Caitlyn said. “But... I knew what she was likely to be, based on what Aveline and Varric told me. She grew up playing the Game. I was prepared for that. And she _does_ have a point about the Qunari.”

“Does she?” he challenged. “Everyone seems to be nervous about them, but what exactly have they done to Kirkwall? They’ve stayed in their compound, keeping to themselves. I wish the Templars did that much. And the word is that they were shipwrecked. That makes them refugees just like the Fereldans, Caitlyn—just like you.”

She could tell that he was being contrarian in part because of his animosity toward the Chantry and the Templars, so she did not become combative in her tone. “They aren’t refugees at all,” she said. “Yes, they were shipwrecked, apparently... but... how much do you know about the Qun and Qunari culture, Anders?”

“Not a lot,” he admitted. “I... know that they’re horrid to their mages. Obviously.”

“The Arishok—you’ve heard of him?” He nodded, and she continued. “He is not just the leader of this particular group of Qunari. He wasn’t just the captain of their ship. The Qunari have three leaders who share power over their whole nation, and he is one of them. He is a foreign head of state, Anders, and he commands a military force.”

He considered that. “So he could get passage back to Qunari lands if he wanted.”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt that he could,” she agreed. “This is not a group of shipwreck victims whose homeland doesn’t care enough to recover them. It’s not like us Fereldans, love. He’s a _leader_ of their _nation._ Since the rest of the Qunari government hasn’t tried to bring them back, it means they’re here on an official mission—but they won’t say what it is, even to the Viscount. And that fool doesn’t care enough to find out.”

“You’ve become very interested in the well-being of Kirkwall,” he said, smiling wryly. “Do you really think they mean to conquer the city?”

“I don’t know _what_ they intend. That’s the problem—nobody does! I just know that the Qun is at least as bad for us as the worst interpretation of Andrastianism, the worst faction of Templars, if not even more awful than that. And however unethical she is, this Sister Petrice is not an enemy of mages. I don’t say that because she claims it herself; her actions demonstrate it. She could have turned me in at any time if she cared about apostates. She has lurked across that alley for a long time. She knew. I cannot aid and abet the Qunari, and thereby this city’s existing so-called ‘leadership,’ just because they act ‘honorably,’ love. The Qunari would do to both of us—and probably our son—exactly what they did to Ketojan.”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I just don’t like the idea of choosing the lesser of two evils. I don’t like it, and Justice doesn’t like it. That woman betrayed you, and whatever she herself thinks, she is part of a system that....” He trailed off.

Her heart went out to him, and she hugged him tenderly. “I understand, sweetheart. I really do. I wish there were another way... but I was given an opportunity tonight and I took it. Justice is pure, but it’s an idea. The world is not pure or simple. Your spirit companion knows that himself by now. And if better people assume power in the Chantry, doctrine about mages could change. Official doctrine has changed before based on how a Divine interpreted it... and if the texts are accurate, Andraste said that _magic_ is meant to serve man and not rule over him, not _mages._ That could just mean that we aren’t supposed to let our magic take us over.”

Anders chuckled wryly. “That is the Tevinter Chantry interpretation, you know.”

“Maybe the Tevinters are right about that, then.”

Anders managed a brief smile, but it faded quickly. “I guess I’m also bothered because... the Qunari don’t rule Kirkwall. The Templars basically do, and the ones here are horrible to mages. Is this really the right enemy to focus on?”

“As bad as certain aspects of the Circles genuinely are, the Qunari treat their mages even worse, as you saw today.”

“Nothing is worse than the Rite of Tranquility. They don’t do that.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed, “but Qunari mages are treated far worse than Circle mages who _aren’t_ made Tranquil. They’re kept uneducated, locked in chains, hauled around on leashes as if they’re dangerous beasts, their mouths sewn shut so that they can’t speak....” She noticed a flicker of blue lightning beneath Anders’ skin at these words and shivered; she had not meant to provoke Justice again. “And you saw what Ketojan did to himself, because he had been brainwashed into thinking he literally shouldn’t be _alive_ after losing his ‘handler.’ I think I know what you’re about to say, Anders,” she added as he opened his mouth to speak. She knew that he was going to bring up how apostates were sometimes killed by Templars. “But it’s not the same. There’s no doctrine that _requires_ Templars to do that, unlike the Qun. Only the worst ones, like that Karras, do that to innocent apostates who haven’t done anything wrong. They didn’t kill _you_ upon capturing you.”

Anders sighed, rubbing his head. “All right—I concede your point. As much as it pains me to say it... the Circles do treat _some_ mages moderately decently, whereas the Qunari treat _all_ their mages like dangerous animals. And you’re right that it could be possible to reform the Chantry and that there are different opinions about magic among the priests, whereas that’s not true for the Qun.”

“I don’t have a problem with the qunari, lowercase-q, race,” she mused. “I do have a problem with the Qun. We would lose _everything_ under it. I was saying what I truly believe when I told Petrice that. The Qunari word for mages actually _means_ ‘dangerous thing,’ and they also won’t let people live in families... or openly as couples.”

“We’re not supposed to be a family or a couple according to the Chantry either,” he replied.

“But there are people trying to change policies about mages,” she said again. “There are procedures for changing doctrine, and dissenters are allowed to serve and express their views. Do you know what the Qunari do to dissidents who question the Qun?”

He sighed. “Yes. I do.”

Encouraged that she was winning the argument, Caitlyn continued. “They wouldn’t even let me fight if I were just a warrior, because they don’t think women can be soldiers. And speaking of women, they designate certain ones for forced ‘breeding.’ They force them to breed with males of the state’s choosing, brainwashing them from birth that this is just how it is.”

Anders grimaced. “All right, all right—I’m no friend of the Qunari, Cait. I knew what they did to mages, which was bad enough, but learning all this.... How _do_ you know all this, by the way?”

“I’ve asked Fenris about them.”

He glowered.  She swatted at him playfully, smirking. “I told you, he’s no threat to you. I asked him because he knows a lot about them, that’s all. I’m afraid that before we can deal with Meredith Stannard and the rest of the problems in this city, we’ll have to find out what it is they want, and hope it’s something peaceful, so that they can go home. Until they do, they will be a distraction from our cause.”

He considered that. “People are more likely to object to evil practices when unfamiliar groups are doing them,” he said. “I can see people being outraged about how the Qunari treat their mages while shrugging if Templars use the Rite of Tranquility, just because Templars are familiar. It also could embolden Meredith to do even worse, as long as she could say it’s not as bad as what the Qunari do. They could even end up being a foil for Meredith and the rest of the Kirkwall leaders if they stay long enough, and as you say, a distraction for the general public, which could result in....”

“In even more power for them,” Caitlyn finished. “Yes. It has to be resolved. The Qunari have to go home, for all those reasons.”

Anders nodded in agreement, but his face was still troubled.

She noticed. “What’s the matter?” she asked gently, taking his hands.

He sighed again. “It’s that priest—sister, rather. She was raised an Orlesian noble, playing their ‘Great Game.’ She used _you,_ endangered _your_ life, to do it. She only decided to give a damn about ‘allying’ because you said you meant to recover the Amell estate and referred to Leliana. That bothers me. I wish,” he muttered under his breath, “that your relationship with _me_ could help mages.”

She gave him a hug. “It does. We’re able to conspire together. And you’ll do much more in the long term for the cause. The main reason Petrice decided to listen was my Amell blood, really.”

“Hmph. I still don’t trust her.”

“I don’t either,” Caitlyn said immediately. Anders looked surprised, but she continued. “I know she’s a Game-player. Right now I have the ability to blackmail her with what she did, and I haven’t forgotten it. She still doesn’t have a problem with mages, isn’t interested in sucking up to Meredith Stannard to advance, and is the only person I’ve met so far who actually wants to put pressure on the Arishok. The ‘leadership’ of the city—the Viscount and Grand Cleric—don’t seem to care about finding out what they want or intend, and Meredith only cares about harassing mages. They sure have been a lot more accommodating to _them_ than to Fereldans.”

“That’s true,” he said. “I didn’t think of that.”

“I know that Petrice is a snake, but I trust these Qunari, and the leaders of Kirkwall, even less.”

Anders considered that. “So to an extent, this is ‘the enemy of my enemies is my friend.’”

“Yes, that’s it. If the expedition is a success and we can move to Hightown... and if she advances in the Chantry as quickly as she hopes... but I’m getting ahead of myself,” she said.

“I’m just worried about you,” he said, managing a smile as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into a gentle, loose embrace.

She smiled back and cuddled against his chest. “That’s because you are sweet and you care,” she said.

“And because I lost you before.”

“You won’t this time. If she betrays me... we’ll take care of it.”

“Yes, that we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m doing something extremely AU with Petrice, which becomes more consequential in the sequel. My take on her is that she’s corrupt and has “flexible” ethics but is liberal on the mage issue, basically like Prince Bhelen. I think this take can be supported by in-game content, plus the canon of her being born a minor Orlesian noble, if one wants to write her this way. She was willing to work with any Hawke, even a Lowtown apostate mage with no influence (whom she _could_ report to the Circle if Hawke tells her to go f herself, but she doesn’t—and that needn’t have been “end of story”; it could’ve just caused random Templar encounters for a mage until s/he becomes Champion). Just as importantly, neither she nor Varnell seem to be cronies of Meredith.
> 
> Cait’s remarks are pretty much where I’m at with the Qun. I’m sticking with what they do in canon, but that’s enough. I’m sure that most of you really dislike the Chantry, and tbh I’m not a fan myself due to its uncontested power over mages (except for the Wardens) and its determination to interfere in secular governments. But I’m writing that Petrice is not a reactionary on the mage issue. Caitlyn is going to team up with her in the early parts of the sequel well beyond what you can do in the game, and her plots may be different from what happens in game as a result. That’s not to say that Petrice isn’t someone to be watched very carefully, even (maybe _especially)_ as an ally, but Hawke knows that.


	20. Exorcise the Demons from Your Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I actually wrote a chapter that wasn't 9,000 words long! Not much "action" happens in it, which is probably why, but there's a very, very important development... after an E-rated scene!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with the story. As you may have noticed, I've created a series for it and put up an expected total chapter count now.
> 
> Song inspiration for this chapter: “Undisclosed Desires” by Muse.

A heavy knock sounded on the thin wooden doors of the clinic, battering them on their hinges. Anders looked up from the patient he was healing, startled.

The doors were thrown open, breaking the latch, and Knight-Commander Meredith herself stormed in, followed by a pair of Templars following silently behind her.

“Get out,” Anders demanded, reaching for his staff. “You have no authority here.” He held up the order from the Grey Wardens.

“That paper only protects _you,”_ said Meredith, her voice cold as ice, the pupils of her eyes strangely tiny.

He moved to place an arm around Caitlyn’s waist. “I invoke the Right of Conscription on her.”

The Knight-Commander’s mouth curled into a cruel smile. “Oh, we know what you can do, and did not come for  _her.”_ She nodded to her two Templars. They advanced toward another patient bed, where an older child was bent over another patient, blue glowing magic emanating from his hands, determined to finish this for this person before the Templars caught him even if it cost him the chance to defend himself. It was  _so_ like his father, trying to give his son’s namesake a pyre years ago, before the capture, the Conscription, the killing, the exile to Kirkwall, the disastrous Deep Roads expedition that cost Carver his life from the Blight sickness and had yielded only a single chest of loot to be divided up among all the adventurers.

The Grey Warden document that Anders was holding crumbled to dust.

Caitlyn knew that this was the Fade, but that did not make it any easier as the figure of Meredith Stannard advanced. She tried to will herself back to the physical world and finally saw the dream imagery dissolving away, but it was too late—the memories of the dream had already fixed themselves in her mind.

She breathed heavily in the darkness of the clinic. Anders appeared to be sleeping soundly; only an occasional, faint glow of Justice illuminated his skin. He was pressed against her but was not holding her. Trying not to wake him, she gently extricated herself from under the blanket and padded into the small room where Mal slept.

He too was peaceful in sleep, she observed, her pulse slowing as she took comfort in his presence and safety. _He’s all right,_ she thought. _They’re not coming for him. He has not even done magic. And if he is a mage, that should not manifest until much later, when things should be better after we have...._

With that, she remembered the rest of the dream. In the Fade, she had not actually experienced a failed Deep Roads expedition or the death of her brother; it was instead false “knowledge” that was part of the dream, but the memory suddenly filled her with disquiet. What if the expedition did turn out that way? Mal was older in the nightmare; what if the dream was a glimpse of the future?

_I can try to persuade him not to go...._ Caitlyn instantly realized that this would have the opposite effect on her brother. Even before she had moved out—years ago, in fact, when they still lived in Lothering—Carver had struggled with his place in the world. His transition to manhood had not been easy with a father who had died before Carver was an adult—a father who had been a mage, at that, rather than someone his son could try to emulate in his career and life path—and a very clingy, suffocating mother who had already lost one child under horrible circumstances and lived in terror for another, justly so, considering what had happened to that child’s lover and to her own husband. No, Caitlyn knew that there was likely nothing she could say that would convince Carver to stay at home if he was determined to go on the Deep Roads expedition.

Caitlyn felt the warm pressure of a hand on her shoulder. She jumped slightly, but it was only Anders. He was gazing at her with concern.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

She nodded, drawing quietly away from Mal’s bed and pulling the makeshift door closed behind him so as to not wake him. They walked silently back into their own nook and sat on the bed together.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” she said, leaning against him. “I had a terrible dream—they came to take Mal away, and I just had to check on him....”

Anders held her. “They will never do that. Ever. I won’t allow it.”

She considered that. Of course she and Anders would not actually stand by helplessly, holding up paper documents, letting Templars advance on their child to take him away forever. They would use every spell they knew and they would aim to kill. Justice would take over Anders. That part of the dream was definitely unrealistic, and she took comfort in that fact.

“The nightmare was set in... a possible future,” she said. “Mal was older, and he was a mage and a Healer. And... the Deep Roads expedition had been a bust, and Carver had died of the Taint.”

Anders pulled her closer and stroked his fingers through her hair. “Mal could be a mage. He wants to be a Healer so much, I hope he is. I  _do_ hope that,” he said fiercely. “No parent should have to dread that, and I  _refuse_ to!” He breathed heavily. “As for the expedition... that Tethras fellow must think there is a good chance of finding significant treasure in that area, or he wouldn’t bother. Dwarves know about these things; they have long records of their lost civilization.”

“And Carver....”

He did not have a good answer for that, and he knew it. “It could just have been that you were thinking about your father and how he died,” he said somewhat helplessly. “But... there is something I could do in preparation, because Blight sickness  _is_ a real risk when traveling in the Deep Roads.”

“Oh?” She looked up at him, interested. A solid preparation was a comforting idea, a practical act rather than mere soothing words.

“I could write to Cousland for a few doses of the Grey Warden Joining potion. If anyone got sick, that would at least give them a chance to survive, though as a Warden.”

She gave him a grateful look, but as the implications of that struck her, it faded. “Anders—but that means you would have to go along too, wouldn’t it? Since that is a Grey Warden secret?”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “It would. If I handed them out to everyone in the group to carry around, the Wardens would have my hide—and would force them all to take the Joining whether they ‘had to’ or not.”

“And if you, I, _and_ Carver went, then Mal... Mother would....”

“I didn’t say I liked it. Let’s hope your brother chooses to stay.”

“Good luck with that,” she said bitterly. She sighed, feeling bad for that small outburst, and rubbed his shoulders to apologize without words. “Thanks for listening to me. I hope it will be all right, and that this expedition will be a turning point for the family.”

“I think it will.”

She let him pull her gently back into bed and cradle her in his arms for the rest of the night, giving her gentle kisses on her head and forehead until she was dozing. As she nodded off to sleep again, she reflected that it was much easier to recover from nightmares when he was close by. As uncertain as things were, waking reality still  _was_ a genuine relief from the nightmares that fear demons—or her own mind—could conjure in the Fade, and his presence in her life again was largely the reason for it.

* * *

Neither of them said a word about the nightmare the following day, but Anders did write a letter that he sent quickly by courier before he even put his coat on, and it was apparent to Caitlyn that this was the request to the Warden-Commander of Ferelden for Joining potion supplies. It was a relief to her, and she tried to put the dream out of her mind entirely.

As he pulled his coat sleeves over his arms, a thoughtful look crossed his face. “Let’s go to the market today,” he suggested with a smile at Mal, as they all sat at a makeshift spool table for breakfast. “Maybe I can find a little coat there like this one, and some feathers to attach to it!”

Mal squealed in delight. Caitlyn smiled wryly and murmured to Anders, “Are you sure about that? He has a lot of growing to do.”

Anders considered her words seriously, then turned to his son. “Your mother makes a good point. We wouldn’t want you to grow out of your special Healer coat too soon! What do you think about having a mantle of feathers, like mine, but one that you could put over _anything_ you were wearing, for years to come?”

“Oh, yes! That would be even better,” the little boy said, eyes gleaming.

They went into Lowtown and picked up a cut of soft linen for the backing. Next they found some feathers identical to the ones on his coat from a vendor who had a prior arrangement with Anders to offer access to a “secret stock” of contraband items, most of which had a magical purpose. Evidently, the more zealous Templars in Kirkwall even had a problem with mundane-owned businesses selling magical artifacts in the public square.

“Three reasons for that, I think,” Anders muttered under his breath as they headed back to the nearest Darktown entrance. “Meredith wants to control the market with the Circle shop at the Gallows to accumulate as much coin as she can, she probably wants to know who the repeat customers are, and she also assumes that any private vendors like that man must be getting their supplies from apostates. Which they likely are, and I’m glad to support them,” he added defiantly.

Caitlyn smirked. “Mal’s feather mantle will be even more worthy of him, then!”

The little boy glanced up at his mother’s mention of him, but he had not heard the other part of the conversation. “It’s going to be special?” he asked.

“Very,” she assured him. “It will be just right.” The child beamed.

Back at the clinic, Caitlyn laid out the supplies while Anders saw to his patients and Mal played with the dog. She was the only one who could sew well; since he had escaped the Circle for the final time, Anders had purchased all of his clothing or had it provided by the Grey Wardens. It was... odd... to do something domestic, rather than hunting down criminal gangs or slaying dragons— _or being part of a smuggling ring myself,_ she thought wryly—but at the same time, it was pleasant, a snippet of what her life had been like in Lothering. As she made a pattern and began to create the feather mantle, she gazed out the door from time to time at the activity, a feeling of poignant melancholy filling her mind.

_If the Blight had not menaced Ferelden—if the ghouls hadn’t attacked Father and Anders on the road—he might have succeeded at getting his phylactery away from the Templars and destroying it,_ she thought.  _So much might have been different then. We would have had to live a very quiet life, of course, and certainly couldn’t have come to a place like Kirkwall, but it might have been something like this: Anders the Healer, helping people...._ At that, her thoughts took a darker turn before she could complete the description of the full scene in her mind. An apostate Healer who insisted on helping strangers would have been in terrible danger.

Little did she know that at that very moment, Anders was also reflecting on the peaceful domestic scene.  _I like this,_ he thought as he finished with the current patient and sent her on her way.  _I like having my family with me, able to relax and just... be in our home, such as it is, as a family. I like that Cait has that mine share, so she doesn’t have to engage in vigilantism for coin. Every time she has to fight someone, she risks being exposed as a mage. I’m glad that I can do what I love, showing people that magic can be good, lifesaving even, and get paid by the Grey Wardens for it. I’m glad that we can be parents. In all my dreams of escaping the Circle, I never considered that as a real possibility until I met her that winter._

_I like this... and Maker forgive me for it, but there’s a part of me that wishes it wouldn’t end. Partly it’s because I’ve already seen a glimpse of what we’ll have to do to achieve our goals for mages—Caitlyn’s alliances with that shady Chantry sister and any Templar who doesn’t hate mages—and I dread what else may need to happen for the cause, but also, I just... like being needed._ He gazed at his child as Mal played with the mabari, feeling a pang.  _If we move to the Amell estate, I won’t be needed anymore—at least to support them. Her newfound wealth will support me. I understand exactly how Carver feels. Everyone needs to feel important and needed._

The voice of Justice nagged at him. _It’s a dream,_ he thought, trying to clear his thoughts. _It can’t stay like this. The only possible way we could live like this indefinitely is if Mal turns out not to be a mage—and the odds of that are low. And it would be an abdication of responsibility to others._

Caitlyn got up and emerged from the nook, the backing for the feather mantle in hand, sewn together and hemmed. “Come here, Mal,” she urged him. “Let’s make sure this fits you.” He got up from playing with the dog and stood before his mother. Anders smiled fondly as she draped it over his back and shoulders.

A refugee entered the clinic hesitantly, slipping through the door and closing it quietly behind her. He was instantly in professional mode as he attended to the patient and the little girl with her.

“They were here first,” the adult refugee said demurely, looking at Caitlyn and Mal.

Anders shook his head. “It’s fine. They are not patients.”

Recognition dawned on the woman’s face. “Oh! He’s yours? And she—you are his mother?” she said to Caitlyn. They both nodded, and she continued, “I had no idea! No one told me that the Grey Warden that the Hero sent here had a family.”

“Yes,” Anders said, still smiling at them, “I do. We were separated before his birth and ended up in Kirkwall unbeknownst to each other until a few months ago.”

“Separated before the Blight, then,” the refugee guessed from Mal’s apparent age.

“Yes. If anything, the Blight is what brought us back together—she evacuated here because of it, and I became a Warden and was assigned here.” He glowered. “The Templars separated us.”

“Then....”

“I escaped from the Circle and met her. I was recaptured before our son was born and locked up until I became a Warden.”

The refugee was startled. “You didn’t get to write to them or anything?”

Anders laughed darkly. “Mages taken to the Circle don’t get to communicate with _anyone_ on the outside while they are in there. Even little children, taken from their parents against the parents’ wishes... if their own mothers and fathers write to them, the Circle authorities won’t let the children see the letters or write back, and the parents aren’t allowed to visit.”

The woman was utterly appalled at this. “I had no idea!” she exclaimed, hugging her own daughter. “Separating families—that’s wicked, that is.” The expression on her face was deeply troubled. “I suppose I always was uneasy about apostates, but I see now why mages would want to live that way.”

The woman’s daughter, it turned out, was the patient, with a case of blood poisoning from a large, nasty splinter she had acquired in Darktown. Without Anders’ healing, the child would have died of the infection in a few days. As the small family left the clinic, both Anders and Caitlyn were quite confident that they would never again fear all mages by default. Every bit helped.

* * *

Caitlyn had not forgotten about her tentative, implicit “deal” with Sister Petrice and Ser Varnell. Something was troubling her, and it was that they were a Game-player who had already revealed herself to be underhanded, and a Templar—and that both seemed to be extremely zealous in their faith, even if their zealotry manifested as anti-Qun rather than anti-mage. She really did think that there was the potential for a mutually beneficial alliance if she truly could become an important person in Kirkwall and give the ambitious sister the option of a “patron” other than the current Grand Cleric—which, if her guess about Petrice’s ultimate ambition was correct, would then give _her_ a powerful backer for what _she_ wanted... but she also understood Anders’ concerns about it.

_I will feel better about this with another opinion,_ she thought. Claiming to need to buy some items, and making sure to leave her staff behind and arm herself with a dagger instead, she headed to the Gallows, hoping that Ser Thrask was on duty outside.

He was, and he was surprised to see her. “What can I do for you today, Serah Hawke?” he inquired nervously.

“How are you coping?” she asked first, wanting to be polite and indicate to him that she remembered about his daughter’s recent death.

The man sighed. “As well as can be expected. It hurts, and... between us... it has made me question even more what I’m doing.” He glanced around unobtrusively to make sure they were not being overheard, but still kept his voice low. “Let’s step aside, shall we?”

They stepped into a fairly private corner. “You must understand, serah—it’s different for your son. He has two parents who are trained and can train him, if he eventually manifests magic. I don’t see any reason to take children from their families at all in that case. But my daughter... she had nobody who could teach her as well as that. I wonder now if I failed her... but what could I have done? Maybe it would have been different, maybe she would’ve been able to resist better, if she  _had_ gone to the Circle, but I just couldn’t send her in there, knowing that I would never see her again and wouldn’t be able to do anything to protect her from abuses by other Templars. They would have placed her outside Kirkwall, you know—or reassigned me to another city. They would not have let us be at the same Circle, able to see each other and talk.”

Caitlyn scowled at the ground for a moment. “That doesn’t surprise me. They seem to have a deliberate policy of cruelty when it comes to tearing apart families with mages.”

Thrask shuffled his feet. “That’s harsh... some months ago, I would’ve said  _too_ harsh... but I don’t think I can say that now.”

“Ser Thrask,” she asked, “I was wondering about something—and I’ll get to that in a minute—but before I do, I’m wondering about something else now. You said just now that you were questioning what you were doing.”

“There are some of my, ah, brothers and sisters, who think that we are supposed to protect other people from mages. When I took the vow, I believed that Templars were meant to protect mages themselves,” he said. “I used to think it meant that we were supposed to protect mages _from_ themselves, and from demons... I think I’ve told you this before?”

She nodded. “But that you now think that you should protect mages from people who would do harm to... us.”

“Yes. The biggest threat to mages that I have seen, by far, is from frightened civilians and malevolent, or over-zealous, Templars, who either harm mages outright or drive them to do desperate things to protect their own lives. I don’t think there would be nearly as many voluntary possessions if mages didn’t feel that their only choices were to be killed, made Tranquil, torn from their loved ones for the rest of their lives, or accept a demon’s help to fight back. If we _drive_ them to do that, how do we not share some blame?” He collected himself, shaking his head.

“I agree completely with you and so does Anders,” she said, feeling completely comfortable speaking for him. If he were here right now, she had no doubt that he would speak for himself very freely on this topic. “I have to ask, though—if you could live in the world you wanted, if the Circles were different and Templars acted the way you believe they should—what, in your view, _should_ be the duty and purpose of the Templar Order?”

“A last line of defense,” he said at once, feelingly. “I have pondered that above all else lately, that question, and that’s what I think.”

“Meaning that if ordinary guards, and perhaps even decent mages, were not enough to defeat powerful mage criminals who abused their powers....”

“Then Templars could be called in. Yes.”

She smiled wryly at him. “That sounds rather like ‘protecting other people from mages,’ you know. Is that what you meant by ‘questioning what you are doing’?”

“I have been rethinking a lot of things,” he agreed. “Perhaps most mages don’t _need_ protection from themselves and from demons, if they are taught well and aren’t driven to desperation.”

“You think?” she said coolly. It annoyed her a bit that this man was explaining to _her,_ a mage, his big revelation about people like her... but at least he’d had one, and it would hardly do to alienate an ally just for talking about the reasoning behind his agreement with her. “There are undoubtedly a few people who would let demons possess them just for power, but the vast majority wouldn’t cede control of their own bodies unless they were desperate. I certainly wouldn’t.” She thought about Anders, but Justice was a spirit, mostly in the background, and he yielded quickly after the occasions when he was not—and Anders had indeed been desperate, though for Justice’s survival, not his own.

“And I was very arrogant to think it should be my duty to protect mages from themselves, since the Order I swore to serve created the conditions that drive so many mages to listen to demons. Perhaps my... colleagues... are not entirely wrong that the true purpose should be to protect others from mages, although that means something different to me than it does to them.” He glanced around again before continuing, his voice even lower. “If that were our sole duty, apprehending mage criminals that even other mages could not, there would not need to be nearly as many of us, so the Order could be much more exclusive in whom it accepted, as it should be. Far too many men and women join the Templars for the coin, or because their families send them to the Chantry at a young age. Or worst of all, because they have a cruel nature.”

“I am sure it must be difficult for you,” Caitlyn said, choosing her words carefully, “but I do hope you’ll stay in the Order.” _I need a spy,_ she thought, _and probably will continue to do so._ “You have a respectable vision for what it could be, and they need a... a better example to follow.”

He smiled sadly. “I’m glad you think I can be that.”

“There was one other thing.” As interesting as the conversation had been, _this_ was actually her original purpose for seeing Thrask, though she had disguised that fact well and made it seem like an afterthought. “Have you met a Templar named Ser Varnell—or know anything about him?”

Thrask considered. “I know him mostly by reputation, but I met him briefly, and I think his reputation is accurate. He was always... a bit of a loner, and not very enthusiastic about his Templar duties. He was recently assigned, by his own request, to serve an initiate who was doing work in Lowtown.” He peered at her. “Did you meet him there?”

She nodded. “Him and the initiate. I didn’t get the impression that he cared much about mages at all, apostates or otherwise.”

“Nor did I. He hates the Qunari, though.”

Caitlyn chuckled darkly at that. “I...  _did_ get  _that_ impression, to say the least.” She peered back and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He is not one of the Knight-Commander’s favorites or hangers-on, to the best of your knowledge?”

Thrask raised his eyebrows. “Not that I could tell. He was eager to be out of the barracks, and never associated with Alrik, Mettin, or... Karras.” His gaze darted quickly back and forth at the grate in front of the Templar barracks. “Listen. You should not linger here. I have overheard some of  _them_ talking about Karras’s death.”

“Are you in danger? Do they suspect you, since you returned with Alain?”

He shook his head. “Our story, which you should also know, was that the blood mage—whose body was recovered from the cave—killed Karras and his group by himself, but that Alain and the other apostates then killed _him—_ and that Alain alone chose to surrender when I arrived later, all the others fleeing the scene first. No mention of you. But this still makes me uncomfortable. Better for you not to be seen with me in public, Hawke.”

She nodded. “I understand. Thanks for your help, Ser Thrask.”

* * *

Anders was closing up shop for the day when she returned. “What did you get?” he asked innocently as she strode in.

_Oops._ She recalled that she had told him she needed to buy something as an alibi. Chuckling guiltily, she breezed past him and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I, er, didn’t get anything,” she admitted.

He turned around to face her, eyebrows raised. “What did you do, Cait?” His voice was pained, apparently because he realized she had felt the need to deceive him, but also worried.

“I went to the Gallows to ask Ser Thrask about my... associates... from Lowtown. You know whom I mean. I wanted to know if he had any additional information about them, the Templar especially, that should give me pause. He did not; my impressions matched up with what he knows of the man—which is good, Anders,” she tried to assure him. “He also had some interesting things to say about the Templar Order itself.”

Anders glowered at the mention of it, but that glower melted somewhat as she related Thrask’s musings back to him. “I have never heard of a Templar who is that sympathetic to mages,” he finally said when she finished speaking.

“He always meant well, according to his own—former—view of what it was to mean well, but having a daughter who was a mage, and then losing her traumatically due to this awful system, is what did it. Anders,” she urged him, “advocating for families _influences people._ That patient earlier today, for instance. Arguing that magic isn’t really that dangerous isn’t going to work, because frankly, it’s not true! We _are_ dangerous. We can do things that other people cannot do, and since it can be a _weapon,_ we do need to know how to use it appropriately and control it.”

“That need not mean the Circles.”

“I know that better than anyone,” she said, smiling. “But not every mage has parents—or others close to the family—who can teach them. You didn’t. But talking about families—parents separated for life from their children, lovers torn apart, siblings sent to different Circles—that changes minds. _This_ should be a centerpiece of our message, Anders.”

“I agree, love. It’s our story, for one. We can just talk about what happened to us.” He hesitated before continuing. “But there are other abuses too, like Tranquility. That should never happen, _ever._ And yet, people seem not to have a problem with it, because they meet Tranquil store clerks and have some passing familiarity with them, and the Chantry spreads the propaganda that Tranquility makes mages ‘safe.’ I don’t know how to counter that.”

She considered before responding. “Perhaps that’s not something that can be changed from the bottom up, by making people care and demand change. Perhaps it has to come from the top down,  _after_ we have the influence and power that we want.”

“People should care,” he muttered. “It’s an evil thing to do to someone. How can they not understand that?”

“We can talk about it, but ultimately the propaganda has been successful in that many people do not see mages as ‘full’ people, so it doesn’t bother them so much,” she said darkly. “That’s why it’s so important to talk about the other. It reminds them that, yes, we are people too—that we have loves, friends, and families just as they do.”

From across the clinic, Mal finally spoke up, revealing that he had overheard the entire conversation, to their surprise. “We’re a family,” he remarked. “The people that Father heals know that after they visit, like the nice lady with the girl today.”

“From the mouth of a child,” Caitlyn said, giving him another kiss on the cheek and heading across the clinic to attend to Mal.

* * *

That night, in bed, he brought up the topic of her earlier outing again.

“I... want to be careful of what I say,” he began, “because I don’t want you to think that I want to control you, or anything like that.”

She was tempted to make a joke about more intimate activities of that sort, but bit her lip. He seemed serious.

“It does bother me, though, that you didn’t think you could tell me the truth about what you meant to do,” he said, turning to face her. “Why didn’t you?”

“Honestly? Because I knew you would worry if I told you I was going to the Gallows to talk with a Templar. Don’t deny it, Anders—you would have. Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she said wryly.

“You don’t need _permission....”_

“Yes, you said you didn’t want to control me. I wouldn’t let you anyway,” she said with a smirk. “It’s just an expression.”

He sighed. “I know. And... you’re right. I would have worried, but I wouldn’t have tried to stop you from going or talk you out of it.”

“You’re sure about the latter?” she said, a hint of teasing in her voice.

He did not crack a smile. “Cait—I appreciate that you don’t want me to worry, but if something happened, it’s better for me to know where you were supposed to be. If you hadn’t come back—if that bitch in the Gallows... sorry,” he muttered, remembering that he was speaking to a woman.

She shrugged indifferently. “You can call her that.”

A single bleak laugh escaped him. “If she had brought you in, I wouldn’t have known that you were last in that area. There are so many dangers in Kirkwall.”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“I’m not going to try to stop you from going anywhere!” he insisted. “But if something had happened today, I would have thought you were at the market and would have gone there first to look for you. I would have been delayed. Yes, I’ll worry—but I still want to know where you’ll actually be, just in case. Please?”

He meant it, she realized—and as she gazed into his face, his eyes pleading, she also realized why this was so urgent for him. They had lost each other, been separated, for years. He was terrified of losing her again, and he was correct that she was in greater danger of that than he was now. She still experienced moments of irrational traumatic-memory fear when they were apart for any reason, but rationally, she knew that his status as a Grey Warden on official assignment would protect him from actually being hauled into the Circle again. There would be other dangers, mostly of the underhanded scheme variety like the vile plot to bait him with poor Karl, but even Meredith Stannard was not going to publicly arrest a Fereldan Grey Warden ordered here by the Hero of the Blight. She, however, did not have any such protection. His fear for her was not irrational in the least.

She embraced him, falling into his arms as he lay on his back, and kissed his collarbone. “All right, darling,” she said softly. “I won’t lie again about what I’m doing or where I am going. I promise.”

He tilted her chin up, gazed into her eyes for a moment, and—with the arm that was holding her around the waist—pushed her up his body to kiss her tenderly.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, removing the leather band and setting it down atop the stack of crates next to the bed, as she intensified the kiss. He let out a groan when she pulled his lower lip gently between her teeth. His hands found their way to her hips, and he pulled her smalls down with one stroke, her helping him along by bending her knees and wiggling up his body further.

Their kisses became heavier and punctuated with gasps of breath very quickly once their smalls were both cast aside. A sweaty, heated struggle of hands and limbs then ensued as she tried to wrap her right leg around him to straddle him. Anders was trying to roll her over and get on top, but she was not having it now, and when she finally positioned herself at his tip and slid down decisively, he collapsed on the mattress, his struggle for dominance ended—at least temporarily.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his honey-brown eyes wide—an expression of awe rather than vexation.

She smiled wickedly. “With pleasure,” she replied, clenching her muscles around him.

Another strangled moan escaped from his throat as they began to move together.

A few minutes later, he had recovered some command of himself— _must be that Warden stamina again,_ Caitlyn thought—and was holding his own once more. His hands gripped her waist and he slid her back and forth, making her own movements that much harder and more abrupt, hitting deep inside her every time. The onslaught from that was turning the tables a bit, making her slip ever closer to surrender despite how this had begun.

His tip hit her most excitable spot far inside, and he knew it immediately—her eyes squeezed shut and a throaty moan burst from her lips. In that moment, she could not hold her position and keep him in place if she wanted to. A grin appeared on his face for a brief moment, and he seized the opportunity at once to flip her over and pin her hard against the mattress— _he does that very well indeed,_ she thought in the midst of the pleasure storm he had just inflicted on her.

In the next moment, she realized that her mental characterization of it as a storm was even more accurate than she had thought. Anders began to send pulses of electricity into her, one after the other, first attending to each breast, then the sensitive places on her waist and hips, then, finally, her inner thighs and core. After recovering from the first pulse _there,_ Caitlyn finally pulled herself together enough to retaliate a bit, leaving a thin trail of frost down both of his sides and prompting a shiver from him.

Neither of them lasted much longer after that, her following him over the edge, each of them gasping the other’s name almost reverently and both of them falling into a blissful wave of intense pleasure that they rode to its completion.

Their chests were still heaving when he collapsed on her, hands running up and down her sides tenderly, and pressed his lips to the place where her jaw and neck met. “Marry me, love,” he murmured, giving her another kiss in the same spot immediately, then a third slightly farther up.

Instantly, Caitlyn froze. Did he mean that? Was that a real proposal, or just another exclamation of love and desire that came out in the heat of the moment? In the space of a couple of seconds, many memories and thoughts flashed through her mind. _He was going to make it dramatic and get on his knees,_ she thought, remembering the now poignant moment in Lothering when he had given her the sapphire ring with a promise that he would ask “properly” once he was free of the Circle. _Well, he is free of the Circle,_ she thought at once—but could this be what he had meant for a “proper” offer? Until recently, Caitlyn had not given much thought to how that lost proposal might have gone, because it was too painful to think about while they were apart and his fate was uncertain. However, since they had reconciled, she had speculated occasionally again—but not once had she thought about it occurring like this, with both of them naked in bed, barely a minute after lovemaking.

It had only been a few seconds, but he drew back, concerned at her sudden stiffness and lack of immediate response. She understood then that he had meant it— _and why shouldn’t it be like this now?_ she realized. _We were innocent then; perhaps he would have gotten on one knee like a storybook hero after successfully vanquishing his pursuers, but our story did not have that kind of ending. Given what did happen, that we were separated and hurt and had to fall in love again, it’s more fitting this way._

The expression on his face was very worried, his eyebrows knitted together, anxiety that he had gone too far too soon making his muscles tense. He opened his mouth either to ask her again, more uncertainly this time, or to apologize—she did not know which, and she never found out, because before he could speak another word, she reached for him with both hands.

“Of course,” she said, her voice brimming with love and reassurance. She caressed his cheek. “I will, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

A quick, uncertain laugh escaped him, then a shaky smile. “I wasn’t sure for a moment.”

She laughed as well and ran her fingers into his hair, gently rubbing against his scalp. “I was surprised and startled—and _I_ was unsure for a moment if you meant to say it.”

“Unsure if I meant it? How can I ever forgive _that?”_ he teased, relieved and relaxed again.

She pulled his head down, which he allowed without any resistance, and cradled him beside her. “I’ll have to make it up to you,” she said. “You should come up with ways for me to do that, since justice is one of your specializations.”

Anders planted a kiss on the shell of her ear and draped an arm around her waist, resting side-by-side with her. “That could be a dangerous opening to give me.”

“I’ll take the risk.” She snuggled closer to him. “Four years,” she said, feeling bad immediately for referring to that, but it seemed almost implicit to the conversation already. “Almost four and a half now. Far longer than either of us thought we’d have to wait....”

“Yes,” he said quietly. They were silent for a moment, in respect for everyone and everything that they had lost, and then he continued. “And that’s why I don’t want to wait much longer.”

“Nor do I,” she agreed. “There is no reason to. We’ve waited _quite_ long enough... and I don’t know about you, but I don’t care two coppers about a lavish ‘event’ that would cause further delay to plan.” She sighed; this was getting very sad, and she hated that, but better to say it. “Father and Bethany... the fact that Mal is approaching four years old himself... let’s just keep it small and private, with close friends and... family.”

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “I wish we could do it before we even go into the Deep Roads... but we’ll probably have to wait for that initiate to become an ordained priest.”

Caitlyn agreed that Sister—Mother, by then—Petrice should do it; she did not know anything about any other priests and did not want to burn the tentative alliance with this one by snubbing her. But those were worldly, practical considerations... and now that they had expressed their grief that it had taken so long and they had lost so much, she found that she wanted to focus on the happy elements of this moment rather than anything else. She lifted her head to face him and drew close again, kissing him languidly as they lay next to each other.

After a few minutes of this, he drew back, remembering something. “Let me give you the ring again,” he said, reluctantly breaking away from her warm embrace, out of the pocket of warmth in the bed, and reaching over the side for the leather pouch that rested atop his stack of crates.

“I wish I’d never left it.” The words tumbled from her lips as he pulled the drawstring mouth open and shook the ring into his open palm. “If you hadn’t gone inside the cabin—”

“I did, though. And I know you wouldn’t leave it behind again, so don’t think about that anymore,” he urged her. “It’s in the past, love.” He took her left hand in his and slipped the sapphire-bearing silver band on her finger again. The gem glittered faintly in the dim light.

_I can’t put it behind me,_ she thought, _but he is right that I should put my guilt in the past. Instead, every time I look at this, I’ll remember that the reason I wear it is that he never gave up on us._


	21. A Light Beyond the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooow, this chapter got completely out of hand, largely due to an original scene at the beginning that I could not bring myself to remove. I had to cut the chapter off earlier than I intended because my hard limit for length is 10,000 words.
> 
> Song inspiration is “Path of Glory” by Demons & Wizards. Relevant lyrics:
> 
> _There’s a light beyond the dark_  
>  _There’s a light beyond this life_  
>  _And painful memories will all wash away_
> 
> Obviously not referring to a journey in the physical world, but....

Waking up the next morning nestled into each other’s arms had never felt better for the pair. They had not put any of their clothes back on, but even though winter was approaching, they were still plenty warm enough from a night of almost full-body skin-to-skin contact—and as soon as they were both awake, the comfortable intimacy of this situation made them feel even warmer.

“This, every day,” Anders murmured, pressing her against his chest, running his hands up and down her back.

 _If only we could,_ she thought—but at least they would be able to wake up like this most days.

They knew they could not spend the day lounging in bed, sadly. Their child would be awake soon and there would be the usual bustle of patients and visitors. After a quick discussion, Caitlyn and Anders agreed that they should also pay a visit to Lowtown to tell Carver and Leandra their news.

Before they could do that, however, a father with a gravely injured nine-year-old girl burst into the clinic. The girl was wrapped up in a heavy bloodstained sailcloth, apparently to keep from leaving a blood trail behind—for which Anders and Caitlyn silently gave thanks; they did not need a fight with the sort of person who would try to kill a child. She was terrified out of her wits, and it was no surprise given the injuries she sported. These included, to Anders’ and Caitlyn’s shock and disgust, two stab wounds in her back—barely missing her heart and major blood vessels—and a nasty, deep gash in her arm. The man had also been cut up, but the child’s injuries were far worse and very urgent, unlike his. She was ghastly pale and dying of blood loss by the second.

Anders did not ask any questions or hesitate for a moment; he was instantly in “professional Healer” mode, lifting the girl up carefully, laying her out on a sickbed, placing his hands over the two spurting stabs on her back, and immediately blasting her with the most powerful wave of healing magic he could produce in order to stabilize her. It was more powerful than anything Caitlyn had ever seen him cast; it filled the whole clinic with bluish light. Her father was caught up in it too, which helped his own wounds a lot. Anders’ eyes turned bluish-white from this spell, but that faded. Caitlyn had rarely observed Anders like this; he usually wanted information from his patients before treating them, but that was so that he could tailor his spells and potions to their conditions. This child, however, would have died quickly without immediate intervention.

 _Who would do this?_ Caitlyn thought in righteous outrage. Fereldan refugee children in Kirkwall certainly were in danger, but it was usually from slavers who had an incentive, albeit an evil one, to keep them in good physical condition. Children who got sucked into criminality themselves would be in the same danger as adult gang members, but these children were almost always homeless orphans who turned to gangs to stay alive. This girl had been attacked alongside her father, however. What had happened here?

Mal was staring at the young girl, and Caitlyn realized that he had been doing so ever since she and her father entered the clinic. She regretted that he had seen such grievous injuries... but, as she glanced at him more intently, she realized that he did not seem traumatized or upset. Perhaps it was because he had also seen his father’s magic in action against those injuries....

Anders breathed heavily, wiped the blood off his hands with a rag, and rummaged through his pockets. Finding a vial of processed lyrium, he downed it and returned to his healing practice. The little girl was no longer gushing bright red arterial blood; that wave of magic had been powerful enough to reduce her mortal wounds to ordinary, if still bloody, gashes. She was no longer in immediate danger of death now. He raised his hands over her and cast a series of spells to diagnose any additional problems.

Baldwin the mabari got to his feet and urged Mal away from the bedside, amusing Caitlyn very much indeed—but also making her grateful. Mabaris really were extremely intelligent dogs, and he seemed especially smart. She followed the dog and little boy, aware that there was little that she could do with the paltry general-purpose healing spell she had recently learned.

Taking another deep breath, Anders finally turned aside and gazed at the father. “She’ll live,” he said to him. “You got here just in time. She has suffered significant blood loss and will be weak for a while, but I can give her a couple of potions to speed the process of regenerating blood. The arm injury was deep but did not reach major nerves, so she shouldn’t lose any ability to move it. The backstabs... hit her lungs, I’m afraid. I’ve healed the immediate injuries, but she will need to rest and not exert herself too heavily for a few days... if that’s possible.” Even as he spoke the words, he realized that it might not be possible. Someone could very well be pursuing them.

The man sank into an empty chair, eyes wide with anxiety. “Thank you, Warden,” he said. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“It’s enough to know that I saved an innocent life,” he said, meaning every word. “If I may, though... what happened? Who would do this to a child?”

The man was extremely uneasy at this question. Caitlyn spoke up. “It’s all right,” she urged him. “We don’t act as informers for anybody. Anders just heals the sick and injured. The reason he asked is that it is genuinely shocking to see such injuries in a child, even in Kirkwall. You were with her, since you were hurt too, but they obviously targeted her. That is... disturbing.”

The refugee sighed, and his voice was low as he responded. “I suppose you’d want to know if this clinic is about to be attacked by the same people,” he said, “but I covered her in that”—he nodded at the discarded, blood-soaked sailcloth—“to avoid leaving a trail. My name’s Gawain. Idonia—that’s my daughter’s name—and I have lived in a rented loft in Lowtown. It’s just us; my wife was an archer at Highever Castle and died when that traitor Arl Howe attacked. I worked there too, as a gardener, but there’s not much a gardener can do to defend himself, you know? We didn’t have any other children.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Caitlyn said gently, glancing up from the dog and Mal. “I lost family to the darkspawn. It’s hard.”

“I’m sorry for yours as well, then,” he replied. He gazed at Anders. “I heard through the grapevine that the Hero, Lady Cousland, sent a Grey Warden Healer here to help Fereldans. Hoped I’d never have to avail myself of your services, despite that you know her, Maker bless her... but our loft is above a hideout where, er, certain activity takes place... and four days ago, one of the thugs tried to burst in on us, drunk, I reckon. Idonia, er, defended us. Unexpectedly.”

Anders and Caitlyn gazed at the sleeping girl. They had arrived at the same conclusion. “She is a mage?” Anders asked.

Gawain glowered. _“You’re_ surely not working hand-in-glove with Meredith, a mage yourself?”

“Absolutely not,” Anders said heatedly. “I despise her and her cronies more than you can imagine.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” said Gawain. “It was one of them who attacked my girl, not the thug. The thugs went to them and apparently avoided jail for informing on her! It was one called Alrik. He was going to take her away and I just wasn’t going to stand for it, you understand? I heard that parents never get to see their children again if they go to the Circles, and she’s all I have left now! I fought him and he turned violent against both of us. She did more than I could, in fact—seems to have a talent for ice! Still, we barely got away from him. Wish we’d killed him.”

 _Alrik. That’s one of the Templars Thrask warned us about,_ Caitlyn thought.

Anders was very, very close to having an eruption of Justice, she realized as she glanced quickly at him, remembering the spirit suddenly. She hoped he could keep Justice from bursting out. He breathed heavily, trying to calm himself, as he replied. “I understand now, but I still think I despise them... about as much as you do. They made my best friend Tranquil. Anyway, I don’t blame you in the least for saving your daughter, and you did the right thing. She is lucky to have a father like you.” In a flash of inspiration, he gazed at the bloodstained cloth. “Did you want to take that with you? It’s probably impossible to clean now....”

Confused at the abrupt change of subject, Gawain shook his head.

Anders turned back to Caitlyn. “Then, in that case... will you, love?”

She understood at once. Summoning her magic, she cast a small but effective fireball at the cloth, setting it aflame. Gawain stared at it, eyes wide, as it burned to ashes; then he gazed at Mal, and finally, he turned back to Anders, nodding in comprehension.

“There you have it,” Anders said. “Your secret is safer than safe with us.”

“I guess it is! I don’t know what to do now, though. We’d probably better leave the city.”

“Yes, you should, at once,” Caitlyn agreed. “If you can, you should obtain passage back to Ferelden, since the Templars here know about your daughter.”

“Yes,” Anders said. “You said your family served the Couslands... you know that there is a new Cousland teyrn, right? The Warden-Commander’s brother survived, and he rules there now. I’m sure he would hire you. Or you could go to Amaranthine, which is Grey Warden headquarters in Ferelden now. I could even send a recommendation letter with you to give to the Commander. She is generally sympathetic to mages, and there might be mages among the Wardens who could train your daughter in secret.” He hoped he was not giving false information; after he left, the human-hating Velanna and the aged blood mage Avernus would have been the only mages in the Fereldan Wardens—but surely the Commander had recruited others since then who would be fit to teach a child.

Gawain considered that before briefly nodding. “It seems I’m in your debt even more. I’m much obliged, Warden.”

The girl, Idonia, was waking up. Anders hurried over to her to talk to her about her injuries and what she needed to do to aid the healing process—as well as giving her some additional advice.

Caitlyn watched fondly as he explained to her that there was nothing wrong with being a mage, and about how she must never, ever, no matter how frightened she was, listen to anything from the Fade that offered a “deal” to her—no matter whose face it took on. _Every time you show kindness like this, it reminds me of why I love you,_ she thought, smiling.

But this entire encounter had also reminded her of why it was so important for them to achieve their goal of improving conditions for mages. The dual evils of the Kirkwall Templars letting criminals evade justice by turning in a mage child and trying to tear that child from her father proved just how important that was. As she glanced down at Mal, who was mercifully distracted with the dog, she felt a pang of anxiety. _This must never happen to him,_ she vowed.

* * *

Leandra was delighted when they made their announcement, pulling Anders into a hug, her eyes filling with unshed tears.

“Malcolm was so sure that it was meant to be,” she told him, still not letting him go. “He was right!”

Amused, Caitlyn left him to her mother’s tender mercies. She actually had a task that she wanted to accomplish: There were a couple of chests that her mother had brought with them but never opened, full of items that had belonged to the Hawke siblings’ father and the Amell family. Some of them were probably specific to mages, so unless Carver eventually had a child who was a mage— _actually rather likely if he and Merrill get together,_ she thought—she believed she should own those items. But that could wait until they owned the Amell manor again; her immediate plan was to find some sort of magical heirloom ring for Anders in these chests.

“What are you doing, Mamma?” Mal asked.

She realized he had crept up behind her and turned around to smile at him, showing him the sapphire on her left hand. “Your father gave me this,” she explained, “and I want to find a nice ring for him now. I think there might be one in these chests.”

“I can help!” he exclaimed eagerly.

Charmed, she let him, seeing no harm in it. Her mother had packed these chests, and she would not have been able to handle anything that was dangerous to the very touch. And in the end, it was Mal who pulled out the box that contained an enchanted ring on a chain. It was an emerald-studded gold ring for a man’s finger, and Caitlyn could sense that it was enchanted to increase magic and mana regeneration. It seemed perfect, and she just hoped that it would fit Anders’ finger. He could wear the chain around his neck if it didn’t, and she could detect that the chain itself held enchantments, but the point of this was for him to have a ring that he could wear publicly. She pulled back the display piece inside the box and found a short note giving its name—“Ring of the Awakened,” whatever _that_ meant, but she supposed it was fitting for one who hosted a Fade spirit—and describing its properties. They were as she had detected.

Anders had managed to extricate himself from Leandra’s hug when Caitlyn stood up and turned around to face him.

“Hold out your left hand,” she said, opening the clasp on the chain and taking the ring off. “I’d like to see if this will fit....”

“You didn’t have to—” He broke off as she took his left hand in hers and, to her delight and relief, slipped the ring on the proper finger without any trouble. It fit very well.

“I had to,” she rejoined, handing the chain to him. He chuckled and fastened it around his neck. “We should both have rings, and since mine was a family heirloom, I wanted yours to be too!”

He smiled, admiring it. “It has spells on it. Yours doesn’t. I should fix that.”

“You are more than welcome to,” she said with a smile of her own.

“I almost don’t _want_ to have a separate band for the wedding,” he remarked. “How could that have more significance than these? They were passed down through our families... and they have a history. This is a man’s ring... I’m sure it once belonged to your father, which means so much to me, love... and yours, of course....”

“Now symbolizes hope and love rekindled,” she finished quietly, getting on her toes to give him a quick kiss. “I agree. Let’s use these, then. It’s _our_ wedding, after all; let’s do what we want.”

“It is an Orlesian custom to have separate rings for betrothal and marriage,” Leandra offered, overhearing the conversation. “In Ferelden, less wealth—even among the aristocracy—meant that couples usually use the same ring for both.”

“Well, we are each half Fereldan,” Caitlyn said to Anders, “and not Orlesian at all. There you are, then. We are observing our home customs.”

“I guess so!” he said, smiling and admiring the ring. “Now let’s just hope we don’t have to wait too long for that initiate ‘ally’ of yours to become a priest. It’s a shame we can’t do it before we go into the Deep Roads... but... everything will be fine,” he said at once, noticing Leandra’s look of worry at those words.

It suddenly seemed ominous to Caitlyn, but she tried to push that out of her mind. _It’s just that so many bad things have already happened and we are traumatized and expect more now,_ she thought. _This will be fine._

* * *

As the expedition approached, Caitlyn rushed the feather mantle that she was making for Mal. At this point it was just attaching layers of arcane feathers and sewing them to the backing, but it was boring, dreary, repetitive work, and she did not like doing it. However, when a package arrived for Anders from Elissa Cousland, containing small vials of the separate ingredients of the Grey Warden Joining potion, this starkly reinforced to her the fact that the expedition was very soon—and that she needed to finish her son’s present first.

 _He will enjoy having this,_ she chastised herself one night. _This isn’t about me; it’s about him. He idolizes Anders and wants to be like him, which is no bad thing! Anders exemplifies my father’s personal ethic for mages: His magic serves the best in him, not the most base. I wish I could be as confident of myself in that respect; I’m the one who has been tempted to learn blood magic for no reason other than my own convenience. For three and a half years I regretted that Mal was not growing up knowing his father, but that has now changed. There are more important issues than my personal dislike of boring work._

After a night of determination and resolution, Caitlyn finally finished the feather mantle. The Deep Roads expedition would take place the day after the next, so she was pushing it to the limit, but Mal _would_ have his “Healer coat” in time.

* * *

The little boy was prancing around the clinic excitedly, waving his hands, the feather mantle draped around his shoulders, Baldwin seemingly dancing with him in a goofy four-legged pantomime, when Carver entered, a deep scowl on his face.

Anders and Caitlyn had been in a gentle, side-by-side embrace as they watched their son cavort happily, Caitlyn leaning on his shoulder and growing increasingly ready for a passionate kiss. When Carver stormed inside, they drew upright at once, the moment lost.

“Carver? What in the world is the matter?” she exclaimed.

His scowl deepened. “The expedition sets out tomorrow,” he spat.

Confusion filled her face. “And?” she said. “Bartrand Tethras has the money. What’s the problem?”

Carver sat down apart from them and glared. “You need to talk to Mother and explain to her how it’s going to be.”

She suddenly understood. “You want to go along, and she doesn’t like it.”

He drew back in sudden irritation. “Are you on her side?” he demanded. He eyed Anders. “I suppose you think you have to go. Is that right?”

“I am the only one who has any experience in the Deep Roads,” he said guardedly, “and I _did_ foot close to half of the buy-in fee.”

“Only because our uncle is a thief!” Carver exploded. “We could’ve earned that coin otherwise! Look,” he said, gazing from Anders to his sister in turn, “Mother thinks that we shouldn’t all go. At least one of us should stay at home, she says.”

“And you are here to relay her messages?” Caitlyn said angrily. “She should come here herself if she has something to say to us!”

Carver glowered. “Yes, she should,” he spat, “but I’m not speaking on her behalf. I should be a part of this! This is about _my_ family too. If anything, you and Anders should be the ones to stay!”

“What, I’m not family anymore because I moved out?” she said hotly. “I don’t _think_ so. And he is going to be family as soon as possible. That excuse doesn’t work, Carver.”

“It’s not that,” he said mulishly. “The two of you have a small child. You’ve done your part, sis—and you too, Anders. I should do this.”

Mal stopped prancing around the clinic and drew his thumb to his mouth in concern at his uncle’s words. Caitlyn noticed and rose to put him to bed at once. It _was_ late, and she sensed that this was going to get ugly. He did not need to hear it. She hated using a sleep spell on him... but she only did so when it was truly necessary, she consoled herself. Still, her earlier self-chastisement, comparing herself to Anders with respect to how she used her magic, came back to her mind as soon as she sent him to the Fade. _I should try to stave off an unpleasant fight with my brother instead of anticipating it and forcing Mal to sleep so that he won’t hear it,_ she thought guiltily as she returned to the main clinic.

When she sat back down, she noticed that Anders and Carver were glaring angrily but silently at each other. She decided to break the silence herself.

“I _have_ to go,” she said. “My name is on the contract—my name and ‘three companions of my choosing.’ Varric needs to be one; it’s his brother who is managing this expedition.”

“And I ought to go because I have experience in the Deep Roads—and because I am a Grey Warden,” Anders interjected. “This is a Warden secret, but we alone can sense the darkspawn before they are upon us. We can also sense the general size of their groups, and the larger the group, the earlier we can sense it—which means that I alone could detect a large party of them and warn the expedition team to take another path. Everyone will be safer if I am along—and furthermore, Lady Cousland just sent me the ingredients of the Grey Warden Joining potion in case anyone gets the Blight sickness. I can’t just blend them together and hand that potion out carelessly, you know. I have to go too, for safety’s sake.”

Carver glowered. “I’m _bloody_ going. Mother thinks I’m still a baby, and if I don’t do this, she always will. I see your argument, Anders, but I don’t see why that contract can’t be changed, Cait.”

“You take that up with Bartrand Tethras, then,” she retorted. “Dwarven contracts are basically ironclad. Set in Stone, if you will. But if you think I will sit back calmly while you two try to shut me out of something as important as this—”

“No one wants to do that!” Anders burst out. “But... your brother has a point, love. As awful as it is to consider... it _is_ possible that nobody will come out of the Deep Roads. If that happens, what about Mal?”

Caitlyn’s guilt at having sent him to sleep surged in her. _Was_ she putting her child aside too much since she came to Kirkwall? She had meant that to change after they were settled in Hightown, but what was going on now did make her feel guilty. But guilt always had specific company with her, and _that_ surged as well. “He is your son too!” she exclaimed. “Why should _I_ be the one to stay? I can’t believe this—two men who don’t even _like_ each other, but who apparently can agree on pressuring a woman to stay at home!”

Anders scowled; that seemed very unfair to him and was not at all his intent. “Sweetheart—”

“Frankly, I’m more capable than _either_ of you, Grey Warden or not!” she exploded. _“Who_ slayed a mature dragon? Who has the reputation of being tough? Varric recruited _me_ because he’d heard of _me._ You are a fantastic Healer, Anders, but even you have to admit that I’m better at offense.”

“You are, by quite a lot,” Anders agreed, “but....”

“I’m not going to be a baby-sitter,” Carver said sullenly.

Caitlyn closed her eyes and sighed heavily, trying her best to subdue her anger. “There _is_ a danger that there will be no survivors,” she grudgingly admitted, “but that danger is decreased if strong, powerful, skilled people are on the team. If I don’t go, Anders will be the only mage in the group. Are you truly comfortable with that?” she asked Anders.

He sighed heavily. That was all the answer she required.

“I fought at Ostagar,” Carver reminded her, his face down, eyes staring at the ground. “It was not lost because of lack of skill and talent. There were just too many darkspawn.”

“This isn’t a Blight invasion force; it’s a section of the Deep Roads in a region that wasn’t touched by the Blight at all. The dwarves think it’ll be safer than usual because the Deep Roads across much of southern Thedas were emptied to support the Blight and haven’t been repopulated yet. And even if the worst happens... Mother will be here. Mal will not lose his entire family.”

Anders and Carver sighed in grim resignation. At last Carver spoke. “You’d better tell her, then.”

“I? No, that’s your job,” Caitlyn retorted. “Anders and I have good reasons to go. If you are that determined on this, if you think that this is how you’ll get her to see you as a man, then _be_ one and tell her yourself.”

* * *

Leandra’s shriek of dismay echoed through the thin walls of the Lowtown hovel. “Something dreadful is going to happen, I just know it!” she exclaimed, clutching her grandson close. “I have already lost Bethany; now I’m going to lose both—all three—of you!” She dabbed at her tears.

Mal squirmed in his grandmother’s arms and turned around to face her. “It’s all right, Grandma,” he said reasonably. “Mamma and Uncle Carver are great at fighting! And Father can make anyone well and he is a Grey Warden hero. It’ll be fine!”

Caitlyn glowered at her mother for exposing him to her fearful outburst, despite the fact that Mal was utterly confident in his parents and uncle. Leandra stared back undeterred. “This is all a terrible mistake,” she continued. “We should just rebuild gradually after all, rather than trying to win everything back at once. Your uncle gambled the estate away, but you are gambling your _lives_ to get it back! No good can come of wagering....”

“The money is paid out, Mother,” Caitlyn said, losing her patience at last and lifting Mal out of her lap. “We’re committed.” This only prompted an additional sob from Leandra.

Carver had stood aside, watching the conversation with guilt and angst on his face. At last he spoke up. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.” Without further ado, he dashed out the door.

* * *

He was back in time for dinner, accompanied by Merrill. Caitlyn and Anders instantly understood.

“She’ll help you with him while we are gone,” he urged his mother. “She lives in the elven alienage, which is very close by.”

“Yes,” Merrill agreed, smiling at the young boy. “I don’t even have to have the ball of yarn to find this house!”

“Ball of yarn?” Anders whispered to Caitlyn.

“Apparently something she and Varric arranged,” she replied.

Anders tried to force out a laugh, but it was hard. For him, balls of yarn brought to mind his kitten, Ser Pounce, whom he had left with Delilah Howe and her husband before leaving Ferelden.... _This isn’t helpful,_ he chastised himself. _Pounce is in better hands._ He picked up his cup and drank, swallowing hard.

By the end of the meal, Leandra had unhappily resigned herself to the fact that both of her surviving children and her future son-in-law would all be going to the Deep Roads, but she still did not want anyone to go back to Darktown the night before they all set out. Caitlyn and Anders were somewhat disappointed; they had hoped to take advantage of their privacy tonight, but they both supposed that they could give Leandra this.

* * *

Varric arrived at the house the next morning with Merrill beside him. It had finally sunk in with Mal that his parents were going to be away from him for several days, and he was trying to suppress sobs and tears. This, more than anything else that had happened, made Caitlyn question her decision—but it was too late now to back out.

She picked him up, hugging him close, as Anders stood inches away. “It’s going to be all right,” she urged him. “We’re going on a treasure hunt! When we come back, we should be rich! Won’t that be fun?”

The boy sniffled and managed a nod. “Grandma is worried.”

“That’s because she cares about all of us,” Caitlyn assured him. “We’ll be just fine! If we run into anything bad, guess what I’ll do?”

“Throw fire at it?” he ventured in a wobbly voice.

She grinned. “Fire, frost, whatever works! And your father will throw lightning, and Varric will shoot it full of arrows, and Carver will then swing his blade at it. There are going to be other dwarves with us too, and they’ll all have weapons. We’ll come back with gold and then maybe we’ll all move into a really nice house.”

He breathed shakily and hugged his mother and father again. Anders felt a pang as his child’s small arms left his neck. Surely this would not be the last time he ever felt that....

Varric understood that this was a poignant family moment, and to his credit, he did not interrupt or say anything at all until the group met up with Bartrand and his team. At that point, it was reasonable and expected to discuss logistics and expedition business. At last, after making a plan for who would do what, they marched out of the city toward the entrance to the Deep Roads.

* * *

Carver sheathed his greatsword on his back, Varric lifted up his mechanical crossbow Bianca, and the mages heaved breaths. Around and ahead of them, dead darkspawn lay on the ground, their bodies charred, frozen, or filled with earth and algae.

“I didn’t expect to encounter darkspawn this soon,” Caitlyn said.

“Nor did I... but this... is a good sign for the size of the treasure,” Varric said. “For some reason, the buggers are drawn to gold and gems.”

“I just hope we don’t run into more than we can handle.” For the first time, she was genuinely worried about that possibility. She wondered if she had simply avoided thinking about it, or rationalized it away, as a method of mental self-defense....

“I’ll tip everyone off if I sense anything too big to deal with,” Anders promised.

“And that’ll be very helpful as long as we aren’t caught in a corridor with nowhere to go,” Carver groused. He did not want his companions, Anders and his sister especially, to see it, but he was having bad flashbacks of Ostagar and the escape from Lothering. Caitlyn probably was thinking of the latter as well, he supposed, and Anders was likely remembering whatever he had done in Amaranthine, but he was the only person here who had fought at Ostagar.

It had been unspeakably bleak and miserable that dark night, and Carver had felt more alone then than he ever had in his life. Lothering had been bad, and he was sure that Anders’ Warden experiences had been tough, but they had both been surrounded by friends and family for those. _I could die on a muddy, blood-soaked battlefield at the hands of monsters, far away from my family,_ he had thought at Ostagar—and then the darkspawn had charged, a seemingly unending wave of filth and mindless evil. That night, he had realized that mindless evil _could_ win if it had strength of numbers—that no one and nothing, not even the Maker, would intervene to prevent that. He had barely made it out, and he had realized belatedly that the only reason he had survived at all was that his captain had assigned him to the back of the company due to his age. It shamed him, even though he knew that he would have died otherwise—but even there, he had had to fight off several genlocks before scrambling back to the road to Lothering. He had been afraid that he would develop signs of the Blight sickness; the filthy creatures had knocked him down and pawed at him as he struggled to get to his feet in the mud. At least that had not happened here; he was more experienced now and had mages and a very skilled archer by his side to take out most of the darkspawn before they reached melee range, but the memories of that doomed battle were hard indeed on him.

* * *

Carver opened the door at the top of the stairs—and was instantly thrown back by the powerful fist of an ogre, tumbling backward down the stairs painfully as the thing bounded down. A healing spell from Anders had him back on his feet, engaging the foul creature as the rest of the team attacked it. Caitlyn froze it in place, allowing Carver to recover—and then he noticed that his sword was also cold to the touch, frost emanating from it. A bolt from Varric’s weapon zoomed past his head, also leaving a thin trail of frozen vapor in the air. His sister had cast a spell to apply this element to all the mundane weapons of the group, he realized. That would be incredibly helpful.

“Fuck you,” he snarled at the ogre, which was rapidly thawing and now thoroughly enraged. Carver knew that it was not the same one that had killed his little sister; that one was long dead, but seeing one at all set off internal rage in him like nothing else could.

All four of them attacked the ogre, whittling away at it until at last it tumbled to the ground with a violent crash. Carver struck the killing blow. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sheathed his blade, feeling satisfied.

* * *

They were caught unprepared, expecting darkspawn—they had developed a certain synergy about how to fight them effectively as a team—but what awaited them in the next large chamber was not a group of darkspawn.

The dragon turned its head menacingly and breathed flame at them. Caitlyn was out front, and she took the worst of it, tumbling back, her robes on fire.

Anders moved to heal her wounds as she scrambled to her feet, utterly furious. _“You!”_ she screamed at the dragon, raising her staff. “You picked a fight with the wrong person!” A blast of cold slammed the dragon, slowing it and encasing it in a layer of ice, though not freezing it through. “I’ve slain one just like you before and you’re next!”

Varric was shocked at her ferocity. Shooting iced bolts at the dragon and its young from a relatively safe distance, he said to Anders, “Did she drink any dragon blood that day?”

“Not that I know of,” he said, equally surprised. Caitlyn was inches away from the dragon’s scales, in melee range beside her brother, generally very unsafe for a mage—especially one whose robes had been largely burned off—but the close proximity _did_ give her the chance to hit the dragon with almost the full force of her winter spells.

Caitlyn seemed to have claimed the dragon as her personal quarry, evidently taking it as a personal insult that it had decided to attack her first, before she had even had a chance to give it a reason to deem her the biggest threat. She barely noticed the dragonlings, focusing all of her ire on the large one. Carver hacked away at the dragon and its young while the others picked off the dragonlings from a distance—Anders sending healing spells at them, mostly Caitlyn, whenever needed. At last, she cast a spell at the creature that froze it solid—and it tumbled to the stone floor, dead.

She turned aside, smiling fiercely, and for the first time, Anders truly noticed the state that she was in. Her robes were almost gone, burned to shreds that barely covered her. She was, at least, wearing a leather one-piece under them, but that too had been singed. Anders’ breath caught in his chest—and he realized, simultaneously, that he had better control himself. This was _not_ the time....

She bent down, making him avert his eyes out of personal necessity, and rummaged through the dragon’s hoard. “This looks like it might fit,” she said, pulling out a new, evidently superior set of mage robes in sage green. “I hate to think what happened to the previous owner... but they are back in the possession of people now.” She smirked at the dead dragon. “That’s what you get for flaming _me_ because you think I’m the easiest to pick off!”

 _Is this entire expedition going to be a trophy contest between them?_ Anders wondered. Varric seemed to realize that there was a rivalry between the two siblings as well, and did not intend to take part in it at all. As long as things that tried to kill them were killed first, he did not care who did it—and neither did Anders. _I just hope that they don’t endanger themselves more than necessary in pursuit of this rivalry,_ Anders thought.

* * *

_There are thaigs, and then there are thaigs,_ Anders thought in awe as he gazed around the vast chamber. Spires and veins of something that looked very much like raw lyrium, if lyrium were red, sprouted from the ground and through the stone walls. Anders felt oddly pulled in two directions by it. It sang to him, faintly, a strange, discordant, but somehow darkly beautiful and seductive melody deep in his soul, barely audible to his brain, but definitely there. The part of him that heard this song wanted to go and touch it—but another part of him was repulsed and horrified, and knew that this would be a very bad idea indeed. This part seemed most associated with the area of his mind that received Justice’s thoughts. Justice, in fact, seemed outraged, though the spirit could not articulate why.

He gazed around; the others also seemed transfixed in various ways. Caitlyn seemed horrified too, and Carver was frightened. Varric was interested, but he was at least as fascinated by the ancient dwarven history here as by anything else in the thaig. Was this odd feeling truly because of Justice? Or... was there something else at work?

Bartrand Tethras strode to a small podium in the thaig where a grotesque statuette rested. He stared at the statuette, drawing the attention of the others at last, and picked the thing it. Strands of the mysterious red substance trailed from its base.

“Bartrand,” Varric said, his voice suddenly edgy and uneasy.

The dwarf whirled around to face his brother. “This is worth more than the entire stash at the end,” he growled. “I’m not splitting this three ways.”

“Put it down,” Caitlyn said. She drew her staff. “You’re not yourself, Bartrand. This place—this substance—is bad. It’s some type of lyrium, but... wrong. We should all leave immediately.”

Anders blinked. _Yes,_ he thought, _we should all leave. She is right. This is lyrium—but something is very, very wrong with it. We are not safe here, this close to it._

“Oh no,” said Bartrand, edging for the door. _“I’m_ leaving—but you aren’t!”

And he proceeded to evacuate the thaig and lock them all inside, the doors clanging shut with a heavy toll of doom.

“Shit,” muttered Varric.

* * *

After that, there were far fewer darkspawn but far more spirit creatures. Some of them were familiar to the Hawkes and Anders, especially the two mages. Shades and demons were sometimes difficult to take down, but they had familiarity with them, Anders in particular. Others were strange to the humans’ eyes: skeletal wraiths with bits of rock attached to them to assume something resembling a walking, upright form. Varric explained to the group, with more than a hint of disgust in his features, that these were the spirits of dwarves rejected by the Stone for wickedness.

“I’ve never lived in Orzammar,” he muttered, glowering at the fallen form of one such wraith that had attempted to offer a deal, Fade demon-style, to Caitlyn. “They’re all crazy there, and this dwarf shit just reminds me of _how_ crazy.”

“Crazier than your brother?” Anders said, unable to stop himself.

Carver stopped in his tracks and shot him a harsh glare. Even Caitlyn was shocked that he would joke about Bartrand right now. It must be some sort of mental defense....

Varric eyed him darkly. “Shut it, Blondie. Save the jokes for when we’re all on the surface again and I can send my fist safely into his damned teeth.”

* * *

“The Vault,” Varric breathed. “The dwarves would have brought their....”

Something rumbled behind them.

“Oh, that can’t be good.”

An immense skeletal wraith, garbed in bits of rock, rose up. It was clearly not prepared to give up its treasure without a fight—but by this point, all of the companions _were_ prepared. Their blood was up from fighting smaller versions of its kind, and they were ready for it when it began to shoot spikes and lightning bolts around the Vault at them.

Carver drew his blade and bounded forward for the thing to hack and cleave at it from close quarters. Caitlyn thought that he was a bit slower than usual... but the wraith’s attacks kept her from thinking too hard about that or what it might mean. She, Anders, and Varric positioned themselves apart and proceeded to attack the thing with their strongest attacks. After an initial round of trial and error that inadvertently put a mild burn on her brother, Caitlyn found that the thing responded best to ice—and immediately cast that persistently on Varric’s and Carver’s weapons before sending another blast of the raw element at the wraith itself. Anders was not as good at elemental magic as she was, and he also had to keep a close eye on everyone’s physical condition, but he took note of this apparent weakness and added his own spells whenever he was able.

The creature disassembled itself, collapsing into a pile of rocks. Caitlyn let out a whoop of triumph, certain that they had defeated it and the treasure was theirs—but her joy lasted no more than a second. In the next, it reassembled, a rock from its makeshift body knocking her aside as it reformed itself. All the breath was let out of her, and she was fairly sure, as she tumbled to the stone floor, that it had broken a couple of her ribs.

 _I have to get up,_ she thought—but it was painful, so painful. She struggled to her feet, aware that the rock demon was going to crush her into the stone if she did not get out of the way. The thought of Mal’s heartbreak, which would last his whole life—and her mother’s—and the fact that her brother, her fiancé, and her best friend would all have to witness her violent, horrific death if she didn’t get out of the way gave her the strength she needed to ignore the pain and struggle to her feet.

But Anders had already acted—or, rather, Justice had, or perhaps the spirit’s Vengeance aspect. The spirit had taken control of him when Caitlyn did not immediately get to her feet after the blow, and he had charged out to engage the wraith furiously. Caitlyn had just stumbled a few feet away, hiding behind a nearby pillar, when the wraith sent him flying backward, landing with a sickening thud on his back, out cold. In the next moment, the wraith began to fill the entire chamber with a strange red light.

 _“Anders!”_ she screamed at him, but there was no response. As she peeked her head around the pillar, she was caught in the radiation, and she could tell immediately that it was draining and debilitating. Behind a different pillar across the room, Carver and Varric stared out helplessly at Anders’ unconscious form. Several thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant.

 _Anders is going to die out there,_ she thought, staring at him. _He’s already badly wounded, and this red light is going to finish him off. I have to go out there—brave it—and pull him back. Carver and Varric could pull him out of there, but they can’t do anything else for him. I’m the only one who can. I have to do it._

She remembered the healing spell—the one spell that she knew. Casting it quickly on her throbbing side, she felt relief when the pain lessened somewhat and it was no longer torture to move. If she had more time, she would have analyzed the light to determine if she could cast some kind of magic shield against it, but all she needed to know was that it was not _immediately_ fatal. She just needed to get Anders back to her safe spot before she gave out too.

The effects of the draining light hit her instantly when she darted out of her safe area, but the blasted wraith itself was not moving, at least. She reached him, felt for a pulse— _thank the Maker,_ she thought as she detected the faint thrumming of blood in his wrist—and proceeded to drag his body back to safety. By the time she was out of range of the wraith’s draining radiation, she was lagging again.

 _Him first,_ she decided, casting the basic healing spell at him as she rested his head in her lap behind the pillar. _I don’t know the really good healing spells, and I don’t have a Fade spirit, but he can restore both of us fully once he’s awake._

His eyes fluttered open, and a wretched, miserable groan escaped from his mouth. His teeth were bloody—though he did not seem to be missing any. He groaned again, staring desperately at her. Beneath his skin and behind his eyes, bluish-white crackles of light flashed, though it was apparent that he was fighting the spirit.

“That’s all I can do, love,” she said unhappily, holding him and staring at him with wide eyes. “That’s all I know how to do. If you can’t... if you’re not able... let him take over if you have to.”

He relaxed, apparently only requiring permission from her, and she watched in awe as Justice assumed control. She expected him to leap to his feet again, the Fade blazing out of his eyes, but instead, the spirit yielded after a moment. Anders’ eyes turned back to their own, human appearance.

However, this had rejuvenated Anders, and that was apparently Justice’s purpose. Anders reached for his staff, sat upright, and cast a powerful spirit healing spell that healed both himself and Caitlyn, who was caught in the glow. He fumbled in his pocket for lyrium and downed it, but he was as good as new now.

She felt embarrassed and grossly inadequate, with her paltry, partial, basic healing spell for one person that she had only recently learned—but he could tell, and he instantly enveloped her in a hug. “I would have died,” he whispered to her. “All my spells are useless if I’m unconscious. _You_ are the reason that didn’t happen.”

She wanted to hug him back, but in that moment, the wraith ceased this attack and assumed a new fighting form. The four companions bounded out to resume the fight, confident now that they could handle anything it dished out.

* * *

The battle against the wraith had been bruising, but no one had fallen again, now that they all knew what its capabilities were. It was a long, slow grind, but at last, they had defeated the thing, liberating the treasure that it had guarded.

And what a treasure hoard it was! _This is more than enough to buy back the house,_ Caitlyn thought excitedly as she gazed upon chest after chest of gold and jewels, with even more treasure piled loosely around the chests. She recalled her nightmare of a couple of weeks ago, in which the expedition had been a horrible disappointment. That part was certainly false—and no one had died, either. It was just a stupid dream after all, then.

Carver’s breath hitched in his chest as he picked up a heavy gold belt to admire. He sat down hard on the stone ground and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It caught Anders’ attention, as the Healer had restored the entire group after the wraith collapsed for the final time. Carver should not be suffering from ill health anymore, after that....

“Anders?” Caitlyn asked nervously as he approached her brother, deep alarm in his brown eyes.

Carver closed his eyes, still breathing deeply. Something was definitely wrong. He would not ordinarily let Anders approach him without lashing out or acting defensive.

“Oh, Maker’s blood,” Anders cursed, drawing back. He buried his head between his knees and began to mutter incoherently to himself.

“Anders— _what is the matter?”_ she demanded sharply.

Carver opened his eyes and stared ahead. “I’m unwell. I guess he knows something. What is it, then? Just give it to me straight.”

 _Not this again,_ Anders thought, keeping his eyes closed and his head shielded between his knees. _Not again. Maker, why? Hasn’t this family suffered enough, damn it?_ Justice seemed outraged on the Hawkes’ behalf too; it really did seem like far more suffering and loss than one family could ever deserve. That horrible day on the Lothering road—Malcolm Hawke’s collapse—his recognition that he was suffering from....

“Anders!”

He raised his head and gazed miserably at everyone. “Carver is infected with the Blight sickness.”

Carver, oddly, took this better than anyone else. Varric cursed under his breath, and Caitlyn burst out with a denial in anguish. “I’m sure it’s true,” Carver croaked. “It must have been the ogre.” He gazed at the blond mage. “You have that potion?”

Anders grimaced. “Not the potion itself, but I have preserved ingredients—but Carver—it doesn’t always work.” He gazed miserably at the young warrior. “I’ve seen it happen. Some people survive to become Wardens... and others die immediately. And there is no way to predict who will have what fate.”

“I’m going to die anyway if I don’t try,” he said resolutely. “This is a chance. I want to do it. Caitlyn—tell Mother, if I don’t make it out of here, that we did everything we could, and that I’m sorry.”

Anders closed his eyes, but it seemed a foregone conclusion. _At least there is a chance now,_ he thought, still thinking of Malcolm. _Maker curse it all if Carver dies anyway, but at least there is a chance that he won’t. I couldn’t save Cait’s father... but maybe, just maybe, I can save her brother from dying of the same thing. I owe it to them to do this, if Carver wants it._

“Very well.” He turned to Caitlyn and Varric. “To the Void with Grey Warden secrets. You two can watch this if you want. I don’t give a damn.” He hesitated for a moment, reconsidering. “But... there is a chance he won’t survive, and if you don’t want to see that....”

She considered. “What does Carver want?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you to watch me die. Either of you. I’m sorry that you might have to see it, Anders....” The words were obviously very difficult for the warrior to get out, and everyone in the Vault could tell that, but Anders did not make a joke or any sort of inappropriate crack about it. It struck him that at last, when it was possibly the end of Carver’s life, he was finally able to be civil with his intra-familial nemesis. That made him very sad, and he had yet another reason now to hope that Carver would survive the Joining. If they shared the darkspawn Taint....

“It’s part of the duty of a Grey Warden,” Anders said as Caitlyn and Varric left the Vault to wait in a side chamber. He reached into his pack and took out the vials of darkspawn blood, processed lyrium, medicinal herbs, and a tiny amount of Archdemon blood collected from the corpse of Archdemon Urthemiel by Lady Cousland herself. _She was Joined with the blood of Archdemon Andoral, preserved magically for centuries,_ he thought as he compounded the potion, _but Carver—if he survives—will be Joined with the blood of the same one that I was. We’ll share that too._ He picked up a small gold cup from the treasure hoard and mixed the ingredients in it.

“The Grey Wardens typically say some things before the Joining,” he said, a wry smirk forming on his face, “but I don’t actually remember any of it, and it’s pretentious ceremonial rubbish anyway.”

Carver laughed and accepted the gold cup. “To the Void with that. Time is of the essence, isn’t it?” He smiled darkly at the cup. “I suppose this is the only use I’ll have for any of this treasure.”

“Yes, please keep that,” Anders said dryly. “Nobody should drink from it afterward.”

“Bottoms up, then.” He tilted the cup and drained it, wincing deeply as he swallowed the foul mixture.

Anders watched, his heart pulsing audibly in his chest—but Carver did not collapse forward in a coughing fit. Instead, he fell backward silently, his eyes rolling back in his head, the sign of a successful Joining.

* * *

“He survived,” Anders said to Caitlyn and Varric as Carver slept it off. _He survived,_ he thought, marveling over the words in his own mind. _I was able to save a Hawke from the Blight sickness. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Malcolm... but I saved your son._ Although he knew that Carver had a tough life ahead of him in many ways, at least he _had_ a life ahead of him. For the first time since Malcolm had died, and Anders had been unable to do anything to prevent it, he felt a sense of peace about his old mentor’s premature death.

Caitlyn gazed up at him. Her face was streaked with tears, and beside her, Varric had been wearing a very grim, dire expression on his face—an expression that lifted at Anders’ words.

“The dream is false, then,” she whispered as Anders sat down beside her. “At least... the parts about the expedition. Because of you.”

“Because of _you,”_ he said firmly. “I didn’t have that potion compounded; some of the ingredients don’t last long after the preservation spells are taken down. And the recipe is a secret, so I didn’t have it written down either. If you hadn’t saved me from that wraith....”

“Then both of you would have died,” she whispered, horrified. “I would have lost _both of you....”_

“It didn’t happen,” he said, cuddling her. “Carver will live. He’s sleeping it off right now, but as soon as he awakens, we’ll gather this treasure and head back to the surface.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” she asked. “Is he going to have to go back to Ferelden?”

“He doesn’t _have_ to—unless the Wardens of the Free Marches insist on it,” he said. “When Lady Cousland sent me the ingredients, she gave me instructions about that very matter. It’s up to the Joining survivors where they want to serve, she said—and the local Wardens.”

“I don’t know what he’ll want to do. I just hope he gets to tell Mother, whatever he decides.”

“I think there are some Grey Wardens in this part of the Deep Roads,” Anders said, frowning. “I can... somewhat... sense them. It’s possible they’ll seek us out, because they can sense me too—and your brother, now, of course. I’ll try to make sure they don’t haul him off without giving him the chance to tell your mother about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert, but yes, he will get to talk to his mother personally before making his decision about where he wants to serve. (That was supposed to be in the chapter, but it got too long.) I think the Wardens treated Carver/Bethany pretty shabbily in canon—unless, of course, they didn’t _want_ to go on leave to visit the family. (Apparently they didn’t write to them either, since Varric narrates that Leandra always wondered if Hawke lied to her about what happened to Carver/Bethany in the Deep Roads, so that is possible.) I don’t see the purpose of it for storytelling or character development either way—harsh Wardens or Carver brutally ghosting his mom—so no to that here. I think I have written the Hawke/Amell family as much more dysfunctional than it even is in canon, but for all of that, they do love each other.


	22. Love Is Not a Victory March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I'm afraid I cannot make regular 3-day updates anymore due to a significant life change (nothing bad, don't worry - just tiring). I can promise you that I won't drag out updates beyond a week, give or take a day or two.
> 
> The song inspiration of this chapter is, as you probably know, "Hallelujah."

Carver woke up after several hours of restless dreaming and immediately wanted a drink.

“Here,” Varric said, passing a flask to him. “It’s just water, though.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Glad to see you alive, Junior. Junior Warden, I suppose I should say,” he snarked.

He glowered back at the dwarf but drank deeply from the flask. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Anders. “I see what you mean about bad dreams.”

Anders nodded. “When the Warden-Commander told all of us the ‘Warden facts of life’ in Vigil’s Keep, she said that during the Blight, her dreams had included the Archdemon.”

Carver shuddered. “Thank the Maker the Blight is over, then. What I saw was bad enough—an ogre, a lot of smaller kinds, and a glimpse of this... _thing._ I’ve never seen anything like it. A vast thing with tentacles....”

At those words, Anders was stricken, his face drawn and ghastly pale. He glanced quickly at Caitlyn, closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to Carver. “I... know what you saw. I don’t want to talk about that while we’re still in the Deep Roads.” He swallowed hard. “Let’s get back to the surface.”

Carver was surprised at Anders’ stark aversion to this subject, but he seemed to understand that it had triggered something extremely traumatic for him, and to Carver’s credit, he did not press it. Caitlyn was curious as to what it was that Anders had seen—and her brother had now seen in his dreams—but she had a feeling she would regret that curiosity eventually, so she was glad to have something else to do in the meantime. Anders had not yet told her about everything that had happened in Amaranthine arling, just that there had been talking darkspawn and two leaders of warring factions, and people had been caught in the crossfire. He had clearly not wanted to relive it, and given the kinds of traumatic events that they _had_ talked about, Caitlyn was sure that there had to have been something very bad indeed about his service in Amaranthine. Even the vague hint from Carver’s nightmare—if that was the reason Anders had not spoken much of the past year—sounded very unpleasant. She suspected she would soon find out the full truth.

Varric found, to his relief, that the site of the Vault was very close indeed to the spot where Bartrand had locked them, and there were doors that opened readily to reveal a corridor that connected with their prior path. It was fortunate; the crew and the wagons were not far at all, and the treasure was easily loaded for transport. Carver kept his Joining cup, the gold belt that he had liked, and a few other portable items he fancied. Caitlyn felt bad for him; he should have been able to enjoy the spoils of their adventure too... but it had not worked out that way.  _At least none of us died,_ she thought.

“The Grey Wardens are near,” Anders said in an undertone. “They are looking for the others they can sense, I expect.”

“I can’t sense them,” Carver said.

“You’ll be able to in time.”

Varric nodded. “Since we have already cleared out this part of the Deep Roads, I guess I can lead the crew out. We’ll be waiting for you near the surface.”

“Do wait,” Caitlyn urged her friend. “If you show up before my mother with none of us with you....” She shuddered.

Varric chuckled. “I wouldn’t do that to her—or you!” The chuckles subsided, and he sighed heavily. “She’s already not going to like your news. We can wait. Besides, I have business with my brother,” he concluded menacingly.

* * *

“Warden Anders,” said Jean-Marc Stroud in acknowledgment. “It is good to meet you. And a Warden I don’t know.” He nodded to Carver. “I am Jean-Marc Stroud of Orlais, serving the Grey Wardens in the Free Marches.”

Anders nodded in return. “This is Carver Hawke. I should warn you... unless you have already discovered it for yourself, of course. This section of the Deep Roads does contain darkspawn. We even had to kill an ogre.” He smiled grimly. “It’s why Carver had to become a Warden, if you take my meaning.”

Stroud frowned. “I am glad that he survived the Joining, of course—and welcome to the Order, Warden Carver—but... this woman... did she observe it? If she did, or anyone else, for that matter—”

Anders scowled. He had certainly shared plenty of Grey Warden secrets with Caitlyn, so he did not take  _personal_ offense at Stroud’s implication that he was careless, but it was another matter entirely for someone else to speak of her in such a way, as a potential problem to be solved. “‘This woman’ is his sister and my fiancée, Warden Stroud. I do understand what has to be done on... these occasions. Ferelden may have had its Wardens annihilated in a battle, but we didn’t lose all the lore and customs, you know.”

Carver’s eyebrows went up in approval of Anders’ defense of his homeland. Stroud drew back. “I apologize. I meant no offense, and congratulations on your engagement.” He managed an apologetic smile. “Are you going to take Warden Carver under your command, then?”

_Oh, for the love of the Maker,_ Caitlyn thought, closing her eyes briefly. Stroud could not possibly have phrased that question in a way more guaranteed to provoke a bad reaction from Carver.

Anders realized what kind of remark Carver might make as well, and he instantly moved to stave off a belligerent response. “No, I am not. Warden-Commander Cousland left it up to anyone I successfully Joined as to whether they want to go to Ferelden to serve or take an assignment here—pending approval of the Wardens of the Free Marches, of course.”

Stroud considered that. “Very well. If he chooses to remain on this side of the Waking Sea, we will be glad to have him. Still, Warden Carver,” he said, turning to him, “you must decide soon, if Warden Anders is not going to be your commanding officer.”

_Sweet Andraste, will you stop saying that,_ Caitlyn thought in exasperation—but fortunately, Carver was keeping his temper. Perhaps the experience of almost dying had changed him abruptly.

“I will need some time to tell my mother and make my decision,” Carver replied to the Warden. “It won’t take long, though.”

Stroud nodded. “I had no family remaining when I joined. The Grey Wardens will, I hope, become a second family to you in time... but I understand that it is different when you do have blood relations. Welcome again to the Order, Warden.”

* * *

Leandra was manifestly surprised to see the entire group return with no one missing. A quick chill passed down Caitlyn’s spine at the realization that if Anders had not gone along—or if she had not managed to save him from the rock wraith’s attack—then everyone would _not_ have come back from the Deep Roads. She then felt a pang for what her mother would soon learn.

_Mother will have to accept that her... surviving... children are grown, and we have our own lives and own paths,_ she thought as they approached her.  _Carver won’t be around much, but Anders, Mal, and I will be living in the same house with her again. That is more than most parents have._

A smile formed on her face as Mal peeked from behind his grandmother’s skirts, and the little boy cried out in relief and happiness as his parents approached. He paused for a moment before dashing forward to greet them.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed, reaching Caitlyn. “You came back!” He gazed at the wagon full of crates. “Is that the treasure?”

“Shh,” she urged him. “Not so loud. We don’t want strangers to know it’s in there—they might try to take it for themselves!” His eyes widened, and he nodded quickly. “But—yes, that’s what it is! We’re going to buy a nice, big house with it. Grandma will live with us again, and you’ll have an even bigger room all to yourself!”

_Not a word about Carver,_ Anders thought. He glanced up surreptitiously, trying to determine if Leandra had noticed and realized that Caitlyn had left out his name. It seemed not... so far.

Varric smiled a genuine smile at this family affection. Caitlyn wished that it could be like this for him... but perhaps his brother was just under the influence of that strange red lyrium. Perhaps it would be all right.

But at that moment, Leandra realized what Caitlyn had said, or rather, not said. “You did not mention Carver,” she said, glancing at him. “Carver—are you moving out?”

Varric glanced down at the ground and stepped back slightly, leaving this to the family. To his credit, Carver did not make his sister or Anders break the news. He stepped forward and faced his mother.

“Mother,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “while we were in the Deep Roads, something... happened.”

“But you’re here!” she exclaimed, interrupting him. “You’re all right!”

“I am—thanks to him,” he said with a nod to Anders, “and Cait for helping him out of a tight spot earlier in the expedition, before this thing happened with me. But”—he braced himself—“I had to fight off an ogre at close range, and—”

“An _ogre?”_ she burst out. “There was an ogre there? I _knew_ it wasn’t safe....”

“So did we, Mother,” he said pointedly, silencing her. “We knew it was a risk, and we were prepared. That’s why we’re all alive. Anyway, I contracted the Blight sickness from that—it’s _all right,_ Mother,” he said, since she was suddenly looking faint, as if she might collapse. “Anders had supplies with him, and... well, in short, I am a Grey Warden now.”

She wavered on her feet for a moment. Caitlyn moved to steady her, taking her arm. When she was in command of herself again, she spoke, her voice wobbly. “I knew something was going to happen,” she whispered. “I knew it. You should have stayed at home, Carver—I’m glad you are alive, and thank you so much, Anders, for saving my son... but you’ll have to leave, won’t you? Anders has an appointment to serve the Blight refugees, but you are a swordsman. They will make you fight, won’t they? You’ll have to leave. You shouldn’t have gone!”

“Mother,” Carver said harshly, “I am not a child anymore. I’m a grown man. I meant to have a career in the Fereldan army, but after that didn’t happen, I haven’t known what I would do. Now I know. I will have a career fighting the filthy creatures that killed Bethany and Father, damaged our homeland, drove us from our home, and contributed to tearing _them_ apart for years!” he finished, glancing with a nod at Caitlyn and Anders. “I’m glad of this and look forward to making them pay, and making the world a better place with every darkspawn that goes down. You would have me be your baby for the rest of my life instead! It’s not natural—and just so you know, Mother, if I _hadn’t_ gone, I would have done something else instead.”

She was crushed by the finality of his words, but she seemed to accept them.

Anders spoke up, his voice gentle. “You will have the rest of us nearby again,” he said. “You won’t be alone. And I’m sure you will see Carver from time to time.”

“But where will you go?” she said.

Carver sighed. “I’m... thinking about that. There were a couple of other Wardens in the Deep Roads while we were there, and we met them. I can join their troop, which is based in Ansburg, or I could report to Amaranthine.”

“Both are so far away,” she whispered.

_Amaranthine really isn’t,_ thought Caitlyn.  _It’s across the Waking Sea, not nearly as treacherous as the trip from Gwaren was... or he could take ship to Highever and finish the journey by land. And he would serve with the people who know Anders, other Fereldans._ She realized that she hoped her brother would choose the Fereldan post... but ultimately it would be his choice.

She decided to speak up. “Mother, there’s not a lot he could do in Kirkwall that actually uses his skills. He could have been a guard... if not for the fact that Aveline recommended against him because of his age,” she finished with a glower; that was one thing she had difficulty forgiving their family friend for doing. “Or join the Templars—but these are mostly very corrupt and do terrible things. Did you want him involved in something like that? The Wardens are a noble order.”

Leandra sighed in resignation.

Mal spoke up. “Being a Grey Warden is good!” he exclaimed. “Father  _and_ Uncle Carver are! Are you going to be one now, Mamma?”

Caitlyn laughed and pulled him into her arms, picking him up. “No, I don’t think so, dear,” she said. “Only if it becomes necessary.”

_I don’t really want to play the odds that two siblings in the same family will survive the Joining,_ Anders thought.  _Please, love, be careful._

Varric seemed to realize that the situation was resolved, at least for the time being. He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we had best go through this treasure. Much of it is just coin, but there are some valuable artifacts, and some nice gems scattered throughout. You might want to see if there is anything you want to keep, before we dispose of the rest of it in our accounts.”

“Of course,” Caitlyn said, glad of the change of subject. “We’ll get right to that.”

* * *

Uncle Gamlen was about as sour as Caitlyn and the others had expected. He was obviously rather put out that they had accomplished their objective, since this meant that they would now have the power to keep him out of the Amell manor if they wanted, or heavily restrict his right to touch the remaining funds after it was purchased, but at the same time, he did not want to give the impression that he wished that any of them had actually died in the Deep Roads.

Merrill came to the Lowtown hovel too that evening. Carver took her aside for a private discussion once she appeared at the door, his face very dour and serious. Caitlyn bit her tongue at the sight; this did not look good, and if Carver did break up with her due to his Warden status—or ended it before it began, if they had not actually become a couple yet—then she was not sure what she would do. One part of her told her that it was none of her business and that she would have deeply resented Carver’s interference in _her_ love life. She suddenly remembered the early days, almost five years ago, when Carver _had_ attempted to supervise them to prevent them from getting too intimate. She certainly had resented it. However, the other part of her whispered that it was different in this case, because this would be about preventing a breakup, not the formation of a couple, and there was no real reason that being a Grey Warden would prevent Carver from having a relationship.

Merrill did not leave the house after the discussion, however, and when the entire family sat down at the table for dinner, she joined. She looked uneasy but not miserable. Caitlyn wondered what Carver had said to her, but she did not dare ask.

After dinner, Merrill gave Carver a silent hug and departed at once for the alienage, offering her congratulations to the family before she did. Caitlyn had no idea what to make of it, and Merrill’s unusual ways of responding to situations only complicated her analysis. She did not want her friend to be hurt, but she still wasn’t sure if she should intervene in this.

Anders spoke up. “I really should go back to my clinic,” he said. “It has been several days since I was there, and I should make sure everything is in order and that the refugees know it is open. And I should draft a letter for Warden-Commander Cousland about the darkspawn activity and creepy red lyrium in the Deep Roads while the memories are still new.” He glanced at Caitlyn. “If you want to stay with your family tonight....”

She was torn. Carver, it seemed, would be gone soon, and she felt that she should spend time with him while she could, but her uncle manifestly did not want her here anymore.

Her brother seemed to understand. “Actually,” Carver said, “I’d like to go back with you. Not overnight, Mother,” he said as Leandra’s face fell, “but I need to discuss some private Warden matters with him.”

“Ah, yes,” Anders said, remembering. “I did have some things to tell you.”

“And I think it’s time that you told us both what you encountered in Amaranthine arling,” Caitlyn added. “We can p-u-t ‘someone’ to b-e-d first,” she said, spelling it out because she knew that Mal was listening to this, and she was quite certain that whatever Anders had to relate, it was not something that her almost-four-year-old needed to hear.

* * *

Carver was unsettled by what Anders had just told him about Warden nightmares, appetite, and infertility. “So what you’re saying is that... that Mal is....”

“The only Hawke there will be in the next generation, yes,” Caitlyn said bitterly. She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. “It’s no one’s fault. Neither of you could help becoming Wardens. It saved both of your lives, in fact, though for different reasons. But this is why I’m so determined that I will make things right for him. He truly is the future of this family now.”

Anders sighed and rubbed his eyes. “There is something else that... I haven’t yet told you, love, and I’m sorry. I don’t actually think it will affect me—but it will probably affect your brother.” He grimaced and launched into an explanation of the Warden’s Calling, an explanation as clinical as he could make it, because otherwise it was simply too much.

“Thirty years when it’s not a Blight,” Carver said at the end, looking down. “I’ll be about fifty. I suppose many people don’t even live that long.”

Caitlyn was gazing from Anders to Carver in mute horror. Why hadn’t he told her about this until now? This was ghastly. It was horrific. _So,_ she thought wretchedly, _becoming a Grey Warden isn’t a cure for the Blight sickness after all. It’s just a postponement._

“In my specific case,” Anders said, unable to look at either of them, “Justice... the Spirit Healing connection, which is so much more now that we’re... united... well, he says that he is countering the Taint somewhat, and that he will be able to prevent me from having a Calling. But... not anything else. Definitely not the nightmares... and my appetite is also higher than what it was before I was Joined, though it’s less than it was before we merged. And... probably not the....”

“The infertility either,” Caitlyn finished sadly. “I suppose that doesn’t surprise me. I would be with child again now if that were possible. Most likely.” She gave him a brief, sad smile. “It didn’t take us long before! But Carver... Maker, I’m so sorry. I know you don’t want to hear this, but... I wonder now if Mother was right, in a way.”

Carver sighed. “It is what it is. Everything worth having comes with a sacrifice.”

“Warden-Commander Cousland expressed an interest in finding a way to prevent the Calling,” Anders told him. “There is some old mage Warden at this fortress called Soldier’s Peak who supposedly never had one and is working on it. I never met him and don’t know how much hope there is, but it’s something that is important to her. Which is more than can be said about most Grey Wardens, that I know of. They seem to accept it without question.”

“Oh, I am going back to Ferelden if she’ll take me,” Carver said.

Anders and Caitlyn stared at him, surprised at the abruptness of that statement. “Er... you decided that just now?” she said.

“I decided it on the way to the clinic,” he said defensively. “It’s the logical thing to do. Amaranthine is closer, Ferelden still needs Wardens after what happened at Ostagar, I _am_ Fereldan and I love my home country, and Lady Cousland already knows Anders.”

She managed a smile. “I was hoping you would decide that! I’m glad you will be serving under her.”

“She knows about your family too,” Anders added.

“Oh, you told the entire group all about that, I suppose,” Carver sniped. “Typical. You and my sister love it when your personal story is the center of attention.”

“Carver!” Caitlyn exclaimed.

Anders gave her a shrug. “He has a point, you know.”

She huffed, but Anders could tell that she was not seriously offended. He smiled, but that did not last long—because the next thing he had to discuss was the darkspawn conflict in Amaranthine. He had not been looking forward to this; in addition to being extremely unpleasant and disturbing, it had not been overly relevant to anything that was happening here in Kirkwall, but it was relevant now. Carver needed to know recent darkspawn-related history, especially since he had decided to report to Vigil’s Keep.

He tried to avoid looking at their faces as he told them about the ancient and highly sapient Architect, his schemes for the darkspawn and the Wardens, the war he had instigated, and the fact that he had apparently begun the Fifth Blight by meddling with the buried Archdemon Urthemiel.

“It almost sounds as if he was one of the _original_ darkspawn,” Carver mused.

Anders scowled. “That’s a story that the Chantry uses to justify abuse of mages,” he said with a voice barely above a growl. He recalled for a moment that Justice was confident of his ability to counter the Taint because he was sure that it did indeed come from the Black City...  _but that doesn’t mean that evil magisters actually stormed it, let alone that it was the Maker’s seat,_ Anders thought.

“What if it’s also real history? It sounds like it might be.”

“I don’t know _where_ the Architect came from,” Anders retorted, “or why he was so intelligent... but he’s dead now. Even if he really was a magister once, and he got too close to the Black City, he is no more—and partly _because_ of a mage. I was _there._ I fought him. So did Justice. You know,” he said, unable to dismiss the spirit’s belief about the Taint now that he had invoked its name, “I suppose I _should_ welcome the theory that he really was a Magister Sidereal. It means I defeated one of them. _I_ did. Wouldn’t the Chantry love that?”

“Not by yourself, you didn’t,” Carver said belligerently.

“All right,” Caitlyn finally interposed, giving hard looks to both of them, “that’s enough of this. Even if this Architect was exactly what you think he was, Carver—and that _could_ have been so, Anders—it doesn’t justify what is done to mages. Let’s move on. I... have a feeling I’m going to regret this... but Carver mentioned that his Warden dream had included some sort of tentacled creature. What... exactly... was he talking about, Anders?”

Anders took a deep breath. “Yes, you’re going to regret that,” he said bluntly, “but... it happened, and I shouldn’t have kept it from you for so long. It’s just... very traumatic.” He gazed at her with wide eyes, all the belligerence and defensiveness gone from his face. “Of all the things that happened to me, that I saw before I came to Kirkwall, I think this one was the worst.  _Including_ what happened to your little sister.”

Carver and Caitlyn suddenly looked very uneasy. As Anders launched into the horrible story of the Mother, and explained to them just what a broodmother was and where they came from, Caitlyn especially began to appear faint and queasy.

Anders noticed and quickly shot a blast of healing magic at her. She breathed heavily and stared at him, eyes wide and face drawn with horror. “That’s... that’s what you thought had... Maker, I can’t even say it.”

He drew close and enveloped her in his arms, though he was shaking faintly himself just from thinking of this. The memories of this fear were not that far in the past and he had now stirred them up again. “Yes,” he whispered to her, closing his eyes as he held her close, completely unconcerned that Carver was there. “After I saw that creature, that’s what I thought had happened to you.”

She muffled a sob against his shoulder and hugged him tightly. “Every time I think I finally understood how much you suffered in that time, you... surprise me. Maker’s blood. I feared that you were Tranquil for a time, until Leliana’s contacts in the Mages’ Collective found otherwise, but after that, my worst fear was that you had died.” She drew a shuddering breath and squeezed him, then released him, though she remained very close.

Carver looked very uncomfortable at this moment of comfort and affection between them. He cleared his throat awkwardly and rose to his feet. “Well,” he said, his voice atypically fragile, “as horrible as that is, knowing about this, that  _that’s_ what I saw in that dream, still makes me want to find every broodmother and put them out of their misery. The darkspawn are the most evil force in the world.” His jaw was set. “It should be possible to wipe out every last one of them. If there are no more darkspawn, nothing will tunnel for the remaining Archdemons. No more Blights.”

Caitlyn and Anders managed dark smiles at that. “Theoretically, sure,” Caitlyn said, “but that’s a monumental task. You can’t do it with just your blade, certainly. The tunnels would need to be sealed off and... gassed, or something. And there are still many that venture into the same Deep Roads that the dwarves, miners, and others use.”

The look of steely resolve subsided, and he gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I suppose you’re right, but what’s wrong with having a grand ambition?”

His words struck home with both of them. “Nothing in the world,” she said quietly.

“Nothing indeed,” Anders agreed.

* * *

After he left to return to Lowtown, and Caitlyn and Anders piled into the small single bed for the night—both of them wondering how much longer they would be doing that—she found that she could not get the image of broodmothers out of her head. The idea of becoming a ghoul was hideous, but this was far worse. The thought of the filthy creatures pawing at a woman, force-feeding her Tainted flesh, and doing Maker knew what else, only to turn her into a mindless monster that produced an unceasing supply of darkspawn—she shuddered against Anders at the very idea. It was appalling that any woman in Thedas ever experienced such a horror. _And for that “Architect” to imagine that the right thing to do was to make one self-aware is even worse,_ she thought indignantly. _He got what he deserved._

“Did you actually strike the death blow against the Architect?” she asked him. “Or the... Mother?” She did not want to use the name; it seemed wrong, a vile corruption of a beautiful word.

“Well, your brother was correct that nobody killed either of them alone. I was there, and Justice—this was when he was in the dead Warden’s body still, of course—and Nathaniel Howe. Cousland landed the final blow against the Mother... but yes, I struck the death blow against the Architect.”

She ran her hands up his back, pressing her face against his chest and inhaling his scent. It was very comforting. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “And... I’m glad that Carver will be among these people.”

“So am I.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Go to sleep, love. Try not to think about— _that._ Think of us, of Mal, of that glittering treasure, of anything good.”

That was good advice, she thought, closing her eyes. And if it came to it, if the Fade showed her a horror, she could try to force it to take on a different appearance. As her magic became stronger with age and experience, she found that she was better able to influence the Fade when she was not excessively tired or upset. What she really wanted, though, was to deliberately enter the Fade with him each night. She did not trust anything that assumed his appearance, so she would want to know for certain. The protection of a spirit of Justice would be very reassuring.

But they did not have a means for doing that, so she would have to trust to her own will. “I’ll try,” she said. “You do the same.”

To their surprise, both of them slept well.

* * *

The next several days were hectic for the extended Hawke family. Leandra and Caitlyn had to go through the treasure hoard for unique or just appealing items that they wanted to keep, sell the ones they did not, deposit the liquid assets into the family account, and purchase the manor. It was at this point that Caitlyn had the displeasure of finally meeting the hostile Templar, Ser Mettin, who was embedded in the Viscount’s office. It appeared that after the last owners of the house—the slaver gang—had “disappeared,” the deed was held in trust by the city, and this Templar had taken it upon himself to handle such matters. Caitlyn had had the sense not to carry a staff on her back into the Keep, but she still left this up to her mother to handle. To her surprise, Leandra knew exactly what she was doing in  _this_ matter. It must have been her noble upbringing, Caitlyn thought.

“Yes, my late husband was a mage,” she said coolly to Mettin after an aggressive question that heavily implied that he still intended to keep the property from them. “That, however, has no bearing on my right to purchase this property—property that was rightfully mine in the first place, I should add. You exceed your authority, Ser Templar.”

Mettin glared back. “The authority of the Templar Order extends to mage sympathizers.”

“That is simply not true,” she replied. “Where is Viscount Dumar? I demand to speak to him.”

“The Viscount has a waiting list, and you will have to _get in line,”_ he retorted. “As for this transaction—I see you have brought one of your children with you. Even if you are not a mage, they all have mage blood in them. This is the one who has a child of her own, isn’t it? If the rumors are true, with that Grey Warden mage that the dog lords sent into our city to interfere with _our_ affairs.”

_“Ferelden_ didn’t send him here. The Grey Wardens do not act on behalf of any crown or sovereign state,” Caitlyn interjected. “Warden Anders  _is_ my child’s father, yes, but he has nothing to do with our business here, and he is doing nothing wrong by being in Kirkwall. He’s helping the Blight refugees—which nobody else in this city wanted to do! You should be grateful for him. Now, back off and hand over the property deed to my mother. You have no right to keep it from her, and the Viscount could not possibly approve of what you’re doing if he knew.”

“What’s that? Are you being overzealous with guests again, Mettin?” Viscount Dumar himself rounded the corner, and Caitlyn had the satisfaction of watching Mettin’s face drain with fear. The Viscount entered the front office. He studied Caitlyn and Leandra for a moment before nodding in recognition. “Hawke. You were the mercenary who rescued my son. I thank you again—and my lady, it is good to see you in Kirkwall after so many years.”

Mettin was completely dashed. Caitlyn decided to seize the opportunity. “Thank  _you,_ Your Grace,” she replied. “We are here today to complete the purchase of my mother’s family estate, in fact—though I should add that she inherited the manor and title anyway, and my uncle, Gamlen Amell, kept that fact from her. We sent a petition a while back, but I am not sure if you are aware of this; perhaps your Templar secretary kept it from you.” She chose her words deliberately, certain that calling Mettin a secretary would get a rise from him, and as she observed his reaction out of the corner of one eye, she saw to her pleasure that it did indeed. He turned pink and glowered at her.

“Did she? No, I heard nothing of it,” Dumar said. He turned to Mettin with a frown.

“Your Grace,” Mettin interjected feebly, “surely you don’t believe these insinuations? I’m sure I have no idea what this woman is speaking of.”

“Mettin, begone. This matter does not concern you. We shall confer later.” As Mettin left the room, a look of loathing on his face, the Viscount turned back to the Hawkes. “Unfortunately it is a complicated legal matter. The many debts and expenses of Gamlen Amell were legally valid, even if his inheritance of the fortune was not. Furthermore, he sold the house to a trade consortium....”

“Is that what they claimed they were? They were really a slaver gang,” Caitlyn replied.

“Oh, dear,” said the Viscount, rubbing his head. “Well. We didn’t have any records that they were a criminal organization, or else the sale would have been invalid. They disappeared a few months ago....” He paused as something suddenly occurred to him, then glanced somewhat askance—but also approvingly—at her. He cleared his throat and continued to speak. “The deed reverted to the state of Kirkwall after they failed to pay taxes and were found to have, ah, vacated the property. If I declared your uncle’s ownership of it invalid after he helped himself to the fortune and disposed of the deed to pay off debts, it would render your uncle legally a thief, subject to punishment.”

“Oh, I can’t do that to him,” Leandra said at once. “We have had our differences, to be sure, but I don’t want him imprisoned!”

“And that’s why we are here,” Caitlyn said in a tone of forced patience, “to _buy it._ That Templar was trying to prevent my mother from doing even that.”

“Oh,” Dumar said. “Well, that makes things very simple. Hmm... the property is valued at a certain amount, but since Kirkwall did not purchase it, I’m not obligated to sell it for its appraised value. You did save my son, Serah Hawke, and I understand that your family has been ill-done-by. Let’s say a reduced price?”

“We can say that.”

Both mother and daughter were pleased indeed to walk out of the Viscount’s Keep with the deed in hand and the greater part of the newfound fortune intact.

* * *

Meanwhile, Carver and Anders were busy making arrangements of their own. Carver was reading every bit of Grey Warden lore he could get his hands on, preparing for his new life. Anders wrote his report about the Deep Roads expedition for Elissa Cousland, also mentioning Carver—who would deliver the letter when he arrived at Vigil’s Keep—and the Blight refugee who had served her family. He hoped that Gawain and Idonia had made it back to Ferelden safely and sought refuge. _Someday,_ he vowed, _mages will be able to live safely in Kirkwall, this I swear... but since we can’t yet, I hope that family made it to a safe situation._

In the midst of all this, Mal finally understood that his uncle was leaving Kirkwall. This made him very unhappy.

“But we _left_ Ferelden because of the darkspawn!” he exclaimed in fear once he recognized this fact.

“The Blight is over,” Caitlyn assured him. “Your uncle should be fine.”

Mal hung his head and wiped tears away. “I wish we could all stay together. We found Father but then moved away from Grandma. Now Uncle Carver is leaving too.”

“We’re moving back in with Grandma, in the nice house I told you about... and your uncle is going to be just across the Waking Sea.”

“In Gwaren?” Mal said doubtfully, remembering that they had been seasick and miserable on that long, unpleasant, storm-tossed trip.

“In Amaranthine,” she said. She got up, rummaged through a crate of books, and pulled out an atlas, showing him a map. “See—here is Kirkwall, and here is Amaranthine, and here is Highever. We might just jump on a ship and visit your uncle sometimes!”

Anders chuckled darkly;  _he_ wouldn’t be doing any such thing. Lady Cousland might have shown him mercy, but he doubted she would ignore direct defiance of an exile order even if she did have sympathy for the circumstances attending the act that had necessitated it. And besides, Justice likely would not allow him to defy it without putting up a fight. There was no reason why the others could not go, however, and he was quite confident that the Warden-Commander would allow Carver occasional leave too. She had a sibling herself. She understood about family bonds much better than the Wardens who joined because they had no ties, no options, and nothing left anymore.

* * *

Carver bought passage to Ferelden as soon as the family moved into the grand house, choosing the Highever port to limit a maritime journey in winter. Caitlyn felt a pang as she walked through the richly furnished rooms, which she and her mother were rapidly making their own. Carver’s ship would leave in two days. He would not get to enjoy this except for visits. He had worked hard too, shed his blood, made sacrifices, and he would not get to live here after all. It seemed terribly unfair to her... but then, she supposed that she was looking at it the wrong way. He had not wanted to live at home anymore. He had wanted to strike out on his own, make his own way, and now he would have that opportunity. He was enthusiastic about his new profession, too, which made perfect sense to her. He had taken Bethany’s death hard.

Anders, at least, was pleased. He moved most of his personal effects out of the clinic, converting the two little nooks into storage for healing supplies, and noted with pleasure just how close the trapdoor was to the basement entrance of the Amell manor— _the Hawke estate,_ he corrected himself in thought. Although they were going to keep that trapdoor locked for safety’s sake, Caitlyn had given him a key to it so that he could let himself in and out as needed. The location really was perfect.

After moving in, the family did not want to exert themselves much that evening. Leandra intended to give a dinner the following night, Carver’s last night in Kirkwall, and the siblings expected to invite their friends, but tonight was just for them. They gathered in the sitting room and sat down. All of a sudden, the air seemed very heavy to the two siblings. Perhaps it was the presence of the urn and the leather purse of ashes—Leandra had never moved Bethany’s to another container, deeming it most appropriate for them to stay in the one Anders had brought—and the two gaping absences in the family that these items invoked.

_Bethany, at least, should have been here,_ Caitlyn thought unhappily.  _Really here, herself, not like that._ She sighed heavily. Grief became less acute with time, but it never went away. The pain of loss never disappeared, and so it would be for the many losses they had all suffered.

Carver was affected as well, but it made him restless. He could not stay in a seat and kept getting up to stare out the windows. At last he turned around and faced his family.

“I’m sorry to leave everyone,” he said, “but... I couldn’t have stayed here anyway.” He balled his fists. “This house is too much for me.”

“Oh, Carver,” Leandra protested, “I know it is rich and grand, but you would get used to it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. He glowered at the floor, but it was only in frustration with himself. “I couldn’t be happy here. Not anymore.” He gazed at the containers of ashes. “It isn’t worth it, Mother, and you know that.”

Leandra was stricken. “Carver!” she exclaimed. “I never said—of course it isn’t worth the loss of poor Bethany—but it wouldn’t have honored her to turn it down or accept squalor, either.”

Carver shook his head, even more frustrated with himself that he wasn’t making his point clear. “I... understand... but to me, this house is associated with her death. Nothing you can say will change that, Mother.” He breathed heavily and gazed at Anders, who was holding his sleeping son in his lap. “I’m glad you did what you did for her, Anders, but because it was you—well, I have unfinished business in Ferelden now. I might have been able to save her if I’d been closer to the ogre. At a minimum, I could have tried to bring her body here. I didn’t do either. I couldn’t be content here.” He turned to Caitlyn, who was staring at him in shock. “I’m sorry, sis. I blamed you for it for a long time, because you wanted us to stay—but I understand now why you did. He’s family too, has been ever since you two got together in 9:27 whether a priest has said it or not, and you didn’t want to leave anyone behind. And ultimately, it’s the darkspawn’s fault. I’m going back to Ferelden to make them pay,  _in Ferelden.”_

“Carver,” she said softly, astounded by this, “if you feel that you have to get this off your chest before you go, I understand, but I don’t hold it against you for ever blaming me. I felt that way myself. I still do.”

“So do I,” Anders said quietly. “It might have been different if I’d been there... and I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I waited before escaping. I was let out of solitary confinement and I _waited_ a week—a week that could have made the difference. We all failed her.”

A sob escaped Leandra at this.

“I don’t think you ever mentioned that,” Caitlyn said. She gazed at him unhappily. “You said that you apparently got there just a few days after we had left, but you never mentioned....”

“It’s true,” he said, unable to meet her eyes. “I waited because I thought the Templars would be expecting me to make an immediate escape, and I needed to plan it well so that they wouldn’t be likely to follow me... but if I’d left at once, and made it out, I would have been there with you.” He looked up, staring into her eyes. “I’m sorry, love.”

She got up and sat down next to him to give him a hug. When she had first met him again in Kirkwall, a confession like this would have only fueled her rage against him, but it was different now. “You don’t know that you would have made it out,” she said, breaking the embrace but remaining very close to him, touching Mal’s hair gently so as to not wake him. “You might not have. You’ll never know. And you’ll also never know if you really could have saved her by being there. We were overwhelmed at the last, and  _Flemeth_ was the one to save us. She let Bethany die. She might have let you die too if you’d been there. None of us will ever know.” She sighed deeply. “We all did our best. I  _didn’t_ want to leave until I’d heard something... and you didn’t want to leave until you had a plan. We’ll never know for certain if these decisions we each agonize over would have changed anyone’s fate. Ultimately... Carver is right. She died because of the Blight... and Father died, and you and I were separated, because of Circle policies. We shouldn’t attach all the blame to ourselves... and I include myself in that,” she said sadly.

Carver spoke up again. “I still couldn’t stay here,” he said. “Anders—you were able to give her a decent pyre and bring her ashes to us. Cait, you and Anders say you’re going to try to make things better for... mages. Whether you’re blaming yourselves for what happened or not, you  _are_ doing things that give you peace and satisfaction about it all. I’ve done nothing except fight in the Deep Roads for the gold that bought this house. I’ve got to do something, and not even just because of Bethany. I fought at Ostagar and crawled away in the mud while the darkspawn overran the field.  _None_ of the rest of you know what that was like. I was a soldier of Ferelden and I  _left_ in the middle of a Blight, even when the Grey Wardens themselves came through town. I have to go back,” he said again. “I have to. I hope this can be home to the rest of you—I really do—but it can’t be for me.”

“I... understand,” Leandra finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Caitlyn nodded. “I... have not felt like I had a home in a long time,” she said. “We didn’t have a house of our own here in Kirkwall. Anders’ clinic might have become so if we hadn’t bought the house... but I  _do_ intend to make this home now. For me, it’s the opposite. There are too many sad memories in Ferelden now, and it couldn’t be home again for me.”

Anders sighed. “And I can’t go back. Lady Cousland is merciful, but she’s also just.”

“There you have it, then,” Caitlyn said. She gazed at her brother. “You have to do what’s best for you, in the end.”

“As do we all,” Carver said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have a NSFW scene in this chapter, but that got pushed to the following one.
> 
> I agonized over whether to send Carver back to Ferelden or to stay with canon and send him off with Stroud. Here, Carver is more mature and isn’t going to cut off his entire remaining family out of petty spite (which is what I think Warden Carver does in canon), so I thought that might incline him to stay on the same side of the Waking Sea... but on the other hand, Stroud’s group is not actually based in Kirkwall, whereas Amaranthine is just a boat ride away. And since Anders’ association with the Fereldan Wardens wasn’t severed in this AU, that would also give Carver a leg up—and he’d probably get more chances to visit his family due to W-C Cousland’s familiarity with Anders and the past he already had with the Hawke family when he first joined the Wardens. There _is_ the issue of Corypheus—and I do not intend to do anything that would prevent DAI from happening (so if you’re anticipating that the sequel will end with a mage conflict entirely averted, uh, don’t count on that)—but the corrupted Carta dwarves could come after him in Ferelden too, and they could also bother Caitlyn here in Kirkwall. In retrospect, the choice for Carver was obvious. :)


	23. Clouds on the Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a split of a much larger chapter that blew way past my self-imposed limit of 10,000 words. You'll notice that the expected chapter count increased by 1 because of that. The next chapter is therefore pretty far along and probably will go up sooner than a week from now.
> 
> No song. This is probably a lyric of something, but I wasn't thinking of anything in particular here.

Leandra held her dinner the following night, the night before Carver left Kirkwall, readily slipping into the lifestyle she had led years ago. However, her children both felt odd eating at the grand dinner table, even when Caitlyn invited all of her close friends. The table was large, since it had formerly been used for noble banquets, and her friends and close relatives still did not fill it up.

Still, it was a fine meal. Several of the guests, in fact, had too much to eat, and everyone except Mal and Anders also had too much to drink, some more so than others—but there were some very nice wines and spirits here. Gamlen certainly had not left any alcoholic beverages behind when he moved out, so these had belonged to the slaver gang, as Fenris pointed out when they discovered them. Caitlyn did not feel the slightest twinge of guilt for enjoying them in spite of that. Blood money had paid for them, but destroying them now would not free or otherwise benefit anyone that the gang had enslaved. Fenris himself realized that, and after he had that epiphany, he took special delight in a fine Tevinter red wine. At least good people would enjoy these spoils in the future.

After dinner, Varric examined the house with a strange, vaguely sad expression on his face. Caitlyn noticed and asked him about it.

He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve got my own thoughts about grand family manors,” he said. “My room at the Hanged Man is all I want. But—that treasure could’ve been put to much worse use than this, and I’m very pleased that you were able to get the Viscount to deed it to you for a steep discount. I knew you’d do well here in Kirkwall, Hawke. You’ll go far if you want to.”

“What do you mean?” Her heart thudded suddenly. She _did_ have some big ideas and grand ambitions, but one of them in particular was a little frightening even to entertain as a fantasy.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “We won’t speak openly of it, of course, but you know.” He gave a quick side glance to Anders, then turned back to her. “Just... keep an eye on him.”

“Oh, I look at him at every opportunity,” she said, smiling crookedly. It was a deflection, she knew, and Varric seemed a bit uncomfortable at her blatant allusion, but she was feeling the fine wine from the cellar and also did not want to have a serious talk about plans and politics right now. What Varric was obliquely hinting at scared her, not least because she knew it would probably be necessary to achieve her true goal of decent lives for mages. It was daunting.

He cleared his throat. “Right, then. I’ll leave you to that.” He nodded at her. “Later, Hawke.”

She watched as he, Aveline, and then—their body language heavily implying that they were leaving together—Fenris and Isabela departed. _Good for them,_ she thought. The wine really was getting into her, and she was feeling positive and happy now, her earlier mixed feelings gone and her discussion with Varric already shoved to the back of her mind.

Her gaze shifted to Anders, who was sitting in a cushioned chair with Mal in his lap, reading quietly to him. The sweet domestic sight sent a rush of warmth through her, and suddenly, she was very eager indeed to get a quick hot bath in the lovely marble tub—perhaps even with him—and then break in the sumptuous bed in the bedroom that would be theirs. They had been too tired last night after moving into the house, so they had never made love on a bed like this one. Most of the time, it had been on single beds—in the clinic or in her bunk in Lothering—or outdoors. The closest they had come to it was the mattress in the loft back in Lothering, which at least had had room for two people, but was still basic and somewhat primitive. Caitlyn wondered what the silk sheets on this bed would feel like against bare skin. Even last night she had thought, before falling quickly asleep, that the grand red draperies of the bed would create the sensation of a close, warm, luxurious chamber when let down for privacy. _I think everything about that room and that bed will make it even better. The very atmosphere of the bed seems to invite abandon, passion, seduction. It will be wonderful, and we deserve it,_ she thought, staring at him.

Her attention was diverted when Carver and Merrill, who had stepped aside, broke apart, Merrill glaring at him with fury in her tear-filled eyes. Immediately Caitlyn’s thoughts fled from her plans for later that night and fixed instead upon the situation before her.

“I _told_ you, I don’t mind writing to you!” Merrill exclaimed at Carver.

Everyone in the room looked up. It was impossible to ignore. Leandra grimaced and backed away into the shadows, not wanting to hear this. Anders also closed his eyes—and the book—and rose up with Mal, who asked innocently, “Father? Why is she yelling at Uncle Carver? What did he do?”

Anders pulled the door shut behind him. There was another door, but Caitlyn found that she could not take it. She wondered if it might be the drink... and she wondered even more if this was truly a good idea, given that she was a bit tipsy... but she felt, still, that she needed to be here for this. Merrill seemed grateful for her presence, to the extent that she could focus on anyone except Carver.

Carver turned aside even as he spoke to Merrill, unable to look her in the eyes. “It’s not that,” he said shamefacedly. “There are things about being a Grey Warden.”

“You told me what they are, and I told _you_ then that I didn’t care! I thought you believed me!”

Caitlyn realized that she was talking about the private conversation that Carver had had with her back in the Lowtown house.

“I do believe you,” Carver replied, “but... maybe you should care. I couldn’t have given you elven children anyway. I know how important that is—”

“You know nothing!” she shouted, her magic now crackling over her palms. Caitlyn wondered if she would have to dispel it.

Carver finally noticed his sister. “Cait, why are you still here?” he said aggressively.

She glowered back at him. “Because Merrill is right. How dare you presume to think you know what she ‘should’ want, ‘should’ care about, better than she does?”

“You do too,” he spat. “You and Anders have scolded her on every possible occasion about her work....”

“I’ve never scolded her for her _work_ and I’ve never said that she shouldn’t care about it. I’ve had disagreements about one thing she has done to accomplish it—and that is completely different from what _you_ are doing right now! Do you really think she didn’t know about elf-blooded children? Honestly, Carver, if you want to break up with her, then take bloody responsibility for it yourself. Don’t you _dare_ put it on _her_ by saying she doesn’t know what’s best for herself like you do!”

“That’s right,” Merrill said aggressively. “I wish you would not at all, but if you have to, then tell me honestly _why.”_

Carver winced, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m going away,” he burst out. “I’m going across the Waking Sea. Even if I had chosen to stay in the Marches, I wouldn’t be  _here._ You say we can still write, but... can we? And have anything, I mean? It’s more difficult than it sounds, I bet. I wouldn’t want you to feel tied down to a human Grey Warden who wasn’t even physically there, and who... well”—he glanced at his sister—“you’ve barely had anything with anyway.”

Merrill’s wrath dissipated, as did her out-of-control magic. She gazed sadly at him. “We have had what we were ready to have,” she said. “I have had much to adjust to, you know. I have only been away from my clan for these past six months.”

“And that’s why I don’t want to make you think you’re restricted. Who knows what the future will hold?”

“But Carver, it is _because_ we have had so little that we can write, and meet during your visits to Kirkwall, and not feel bound to anything yet. It is not like your sister and Anders.” She turned to Caitlyn. “Carver and I have never, erm....” She flushed faintly in the dim light.

Somehow Caitlyn was not surprised in the slightest that Merrill had felt the need to share that with her. It was exactly of a piece with the elf woman’s curious mix of shyness and ingenuous bluntness. “Well, you didn’t have to tell me that—not that I mind—but I agree with you. Why not write and see what comes of it?”

“Exactly. It is a chance. You would eliminate that chance,” she said to Carver.

He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his dark hair. “All right,” he said, “we can write. I don’t want to hurt you, Merrill, and I didn’t mean to.”

“Then respect what I say,” she said, though her tone was gentle.

He managed a nod. Feeling at last that it was time for her to go, Caitlyn slipped out of the room and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Anders was tucking Mal into bed in his nice new room, right next to theirs, when she noticed him. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“I think I—we—talked him into being reasonable,” she said in a low voice. “He said he will correspond with her after all.”

“Good. I was afraid I would have to go down there and blast him with a spell.”

“You would have been third in line to do that, behind Merrill and me.”

He laughed and pulled the door shut. “I suppose so.” He eyed her with a knowing smile. “Now. On to other things.”

Suddenly, her desirous fantasies rushed back to the forefront of her thoughts.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were staring at me for a long time downstairs,” he said, opening the bedroom door and stepping in with her.

“Was I?” she said, smiling. “You were holding him in your lap, reading to him... the lights were soft and warm....”

“That’s especially attractive?”

“Watching you be gentle and devoted to our child? Yes, that’s especially attractive.” She stepped forward and took his hands in hers, gazing up at him. The expression of mirth on his face told her that he had not been baffled by her attraction to that; he just wanted her to say it herself. She did not mind at all. “Come. The bath awaits, and after that....” She nodded at the draped canopy bed.

The bath had dwarven runes for manipulating the elements to produce water at the desired temperature. It was the sort of luxury that was unheard of in Ferelden, even for the high nobles. She and Anders manipulated the runes until the water temperature was perfect, then removed their clothes—eyeing each other admiringly—and stepped in. She sank into the tub and leaned against the marble wall, letting the ends of her hair get wet. She closed her eyes in bliss, but only for a moment; she did not want to block out the fine body before her.

He moved closer, almost hovering over her against the side of the tub. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to say... I noticed it before, in the clinic, but it’s even more apparent now, when you can relax and stretch in a lighted room. You... look different from how I remembered you from Lothering.” He placed his hands on her hips and gazed down at her. “Curves. They’re beautiful,” he added immediately, not wanting to give her a wrong impression.

She understood and smiled back, actually quite flattered that he would notice and remark on it. “I carried a child and gave birth. It changes a woman’s body. I worked hard for a year, too, but carrying contraband wasn’t any more strenuous than doing farm work.”

He moved his hands to her flat abs under the water, making her shudder in pleasure. “Well, that’s why you have this, I’m sure.” He smiled at her. “I know about those changes, but... it’s one thing to read about it in a Healer book and another to see it in the woman I love, because she had _my_ child.”

He leaned over her, caressing her cheek with his left hand and placing his right on the marble wall on the other side of her head. Her breath caught in her chest as he sealed her lips with his, and she immediately brought her hands to each side of his face to hold him in place. They deepened the kiss together, almost devouring each other as the warm water swirled around them. He pushed against her down to the waist, and at that point she felt the telltale hardness against her body. That brought her out of the heated fog.

“Can’t... in the tub,” she gasped, breaking apart. “I mean... we _can..._ but the bed is so nice....”

Anders did not agree with her decision or her rationale. “Warden stamina,” he said, pushing back. “I can go again—and I promise you, I will make sure you can too.”

She knew she could not resist him, and the truth was that she didn’t actually want to. She wanted to take him in that bed, but if he could hold to his word.... “You’d better,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I will,” he said, his words almost a threat. He positioned himself and surged forward without any additional prelude, eliciting a shriek of surprise from her that she had to muffle. She was not hurt; she just was not expecting it so quickly. “I will,” he murmured as he began to thrust hard, pushing her against the curved wall. The water sloshed harder, almost spilling over the side with every movement. She was overwhelmed with sensation; she’d never had a bath like this one before, just baths in tin washtubs and the like, and the sensuous luxury alone was arousing—but that was also combined with the feel of the water’s surface breaking against her skin, the heat of it, and _especially_ the intense presence of him over her and in her, pushing her against the unyielding surface as he filled her repeatedly.

Neither of them lasted very long for this, but it was somehow their unspoken understanding that it would be quick and not drawn out. After their climaxes dissipated and the sloshing of the water subsided to a gentle ebb and flow, they somehow managed to sit upright again and actually scrub each other clean. If Anders spent a _bit_ too much time on certain places that he knew were especially sensitive for her, like her waist and hips, she did not mind.

The water was only warm by that time, but Caitlyn realized, as she prepared to step out of the tub, that he was right—he had almost gotten her ready again. He pulled on a dressing gown and gazed at her nude form as she considered her nightgown. Unlike his simple belted jacket-like robe, her negligee did not open from the front or back and thus was a bit more difficult to get into—and out of.

“Are you going to put that on or am I going to have to pull you naked into the bed?”

She whirled around, holding the garment. The robe did not hide the evidence around his waistline, and seeing _that_ brought a grin to her face. She strode forward boldly, draping the negligee across one bent elbow, and stood in front of him when she reached him.

“Neither,” she said, smiling. “I am not going to put it on, and I’m walking to the bed myself.” She raised her other hand and ghosted her fingers across the dark green material that concealed his bulge so poorly.

He drew breath sharply at that. In a quick motion, his right hand darted out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was tight. She heard him pant for breath and gazed up at him. In a few moments, his expression had become vulnerable and desperate with need and desire. Whenever he looked like that, it almost drove her mad—and this was no exception. He was still holding her wrist, but she nevertheless led him to the bed. He released her as they tumbled onto the mattress together, and in a swift movement, shed his dressing gown.

Anders gazed across the large mattress in a certain degree of awe, then crawled to one side and sat upright to wait for her. She untied the bed drapes and let them fall, shielding the couple behind crimson and gold. The effect was exactly what she had hoped for, with the light of the magical crystal lamps filtering through the fabric just enough. She pulled back the bedspread and sheets and reached for him, pulling him down.

Caitlyn was expecting him to try to roll on top of her and lead, as he usually did. Over the past few weeks, since they had again become lovers, she had realized that her recent preference for that was not a fluke; she truly did delight in having _one_ place in which she did not have to try to manipulate a situation, bully people, or be on her guard to avoid being taken advantage of—one place other than with her son, of course, but that did not count since he was a child. Having an intimate, loving relationship again with Anders had been very good for her, she knew—and having such trust in him, despite the entity he harbored, was part of that intimacy.

But she still did not want him to lead _every_ night—and this was one of the others. As she gazed at him, lying on his back, his head sunk into a pillow, eyes staring needily at hers, she realized that tonight, she wanted things to be a bit different.

His arms were lean and toned, exuding a strength that was unusual in a mage— _a Circle mage,_ she corrected herself. _Free mages like us have the opportunity to become fit... and those are very nice and fit arms indeed. They’re strong enough to pin me down. He likes to do that sometimes._

_But tonight...._

There was nothing on the bed that she could use, so as much as she regretted it, she got down and drew back the curtains on the side of the bed where she knew her clothing lay. She picked up her belt and got back on the bed, pulling the drapes tight again as she held the belt meaningfully in her hands. Anders’ eyes widened, and they grew even rounder when she climbed on top of him, straddling his waist.

“This is a change of pace, isn’t it?” she murmured as she lifted his wrists to the closest bedpost and wrapped the leather strap around them. He did not offer the slightest suggestion of even playful resistance, and she realized that he must have wanted this very much indeed, whether he had realized it before or not.

He swallowed hard and strained against the belt, testing its hold, letting out a quick, satisfied moan at the sensation. “A very pleasant one, though.” He stared at her, desperation in his eyes. “I am yours.”

“Yes, you are,” she agreed in a purr, smirking, as she leaned down to begin kissing him. “You are mine and I’m not going to let you go until I am ready.”

He strained again, trying to arch up and relieve a bit of his arousal against her body. “Never let me go,” he whispered.

Caitlyn realized with a start that he was not talking about being bound to the bedpost anymore. The smirk faded from her face at his words, transforming into a tender smile. “I won’t,” she whispered back, punctuating the promise with a kiss on his cheek. He closed his eyes, relaxed, and breathed deeply.

She suspected that he liked so much to hold her down and occasionally tie her arms up because of his fear of losing her. It was a game of trust for her, but... perhaps... it was a game of belonging for both of them—belonging, and acting out a defiance of their fear. It certainly seemed to be for him right now, and his need for this made her feel the same way.

She decided not to make him—make either of them—wait any longer. He was extremely ready, and after all, he had not had to do much to get her ready again as well—really, just talk to her as he had just done, moan and gasp and make subtle little responses to the situation as he had just done. She desired him very much tonight. Taking a breath, she reached for his shoulders to brace herself as she slowly joined with him. His eyelids fluttered closed for a moment as she began to move, and in the next moment, he began to move in concert with her.

They had not ever forgotten how specifically to please each other, and over the past few weeks, the long-buried knowledge had emerged again. They knew how to make this last when they wanted, and that was indeed what they wanted tonight. She took him slowly and tenderly, never letting him suffer from denial, but also not letting him peak too soon. He was hers tonight, as he had said, and she found that she liked this too, setting the pace and being in control of her own pleasure rather than surrendering that to him. He was _so_ good at it—but right now, she was the one making him gasp, cry out, moan, and thrash, as far as the bond on his wrists would let him. It was thrilling and gratifying to know that, no matter what he could do to her, she could do this to him too.

Anders shuddered and trembled beneath her as he had his release, and she followed him in a few seconds, reaching for the belt as soon as she had gasped for breath and come back to herself enough to think of it. She untied his wrists and promptly found herself enveloped in his arms as they collapsed together, side by side, clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it and pulling the silky covers over themselves to keep the warmth they had generated.

When at last they were able to speak, Caitlyn gazed into his eyes and murmured, “I will never, ever let you go.” She reached under the sheets for his hand and fingered the band on it meaningfully. “And I know you will never let me go either. This, always.”

He ran his fingers through her hair in response, pulling her close, cuddling her beneath his chin as they drifted off.

* * *

Carver’s ship set sail the following day. At Leandra’s insistence, the family went with him to the docks well before it was to depart, which no one else truly thought was a good idea for her, and they had their suspicions amply justified when the family reached the harbor. She was weepy and miserable, trying her best not to hold her son in a crushing embrace in public. To the merchants and sailors in the dockyard area, who frequently sailed to ports such as Val Royeaux, Wycome, Gwaren, or even as far distant as Dairsmuid, a short trip to Highever was nothing, barely warranting mention, let alone a scene of tears and fears. Leandra seemed to understand that and tried to keep it in check.

She also did not want to disturb Mal, who might interpret such a display as justified fear for Carver’s safety on the voyage. Anders was keeping his attention focused on other things, to the extent possible, and for not the first time, Caitlyn reflected on how readily Anders had fallen into his role as a father. In some ways, it came more naturally to him than being a mother did to her. For a while now, Anders had spent more time alone with Mal than she had. She had supposed that it was because he wanted to try to make up for the lost years and because she had been so busy doing vigilante work and preparing for the Deep Roads. She also suspected that Mal’s idolization of Anders, the long-lost father who appeared at last and loved them both dearly, who was a Healer and a “Grey Warden hero,” and who helped his Uncle Carver, made _him_ more inclined to spend time with Anders temporarily.

_We have the house,_ she thought.  _I need to sketch out concrete plans for my... ambitions... but politics will be about scheming, plotting, and making alliances, not doing mercenary work for coin. It’s something I can do indoors, in my own home. Surely I can settle down now and devote myself to them. To my family. I can go back to that part of my life in Lothering. Nothing else, but still that._

Leandra exclaimed in surprise as a group of people approached. Caitlyn turned around and gaped. Every one of their friends had made a last appearance before seeing Carver back to Ferelden. Even Aveline was there, though she was staying in the background, aware that Carver did not especially like her.

Varric gave a gentle push, and Merrill stepped forward nervously. The rest of the group politely stepped aside to give them a private moment. Caitlyn wondered what they were saying, as they conversed in low voices, but when the little elf drew away, she was smiling mildly. That was a vast improvement from the scene the night before, so she presumed that they had reiterated their promises to write. She wondered how it would turn out. Although she did not regret anything about her relationship with Anders— _the first phase of it,_ she thought—and especially not now, she still wondered sadly if perhaps Carver and Merrill had the right idea about going slowly and not letting themselves actually fall in love just prior to the departure of one of them, even though they knew that would not be a permanent separation. She and Anders  _had_ suffered enormously, and although she realized that Carver likely had reasons of his own for being cautious—she recalled his remark about “elven children”—she could not help but wonder if he had been frightened by  _her_ sad experience. She hoped that it worked out for them, and that no one’s feelings were too badly hurt if it did not work out.

Carver turned aside and faced his family. “Well,” he said gruffly, “I guess this is it for now.”

“Oh, Carver,” his mother finally burst out, her composure shattered at last as she hugged him. “Please write to me as quickly as you can.”

“Mother, I said I would—”

“You should send a letter as soon as you land in Highever,” she continued. “And then once you arrive in Amaranthine and have found the Wardens.”

“Mother,” he said patiently, “I don’t have unlimited coin for inn stays. Anders told us that Highever and Amaranthine are open now, and that there’s a very strong alliance between them due to Couslands holding both now, so it should be perfectly safe and shouldn’t take me long at all to reach Vigil’s Keep.”

She hugged him again. “Please write often,” she said. “I cannot help but worry about you every day, knowing that you will be facing those... those _monsters.”_

“I won’t be facing them every day,” he said. “It should be routine operations, now that the Blight is over and the darkspawn war is put down.”

A crooked smile formed on Anders’ face at that despite the present scene. Caitlyn noticed and remembered proudly that he was personally responsible for the death of the instigator of that conflict.

“Don’t get me wrong, Mother; I will take _joy_ in killing the filthy things. But that shouldn’t happen that often. Most days would be like things were with the previous Warden-Commander, the one in Denerim Father knew.”

“Don’t go out alone,” she said. “Always have other Wardens with you when you’re scouting.”

He rolled his eyes when she was not looking. Behind him, Caitlyn, Anders, and every one of their friends was about to chuckle, even the dour Fenris and the ingenuous Merrill.

“Commander Cousland didn’t assign people to do anything alone,” Anders put in, trying not to laugh at a mother’s concern. “It’s _fine._ He’s well able to defend himself, and the darkspawn can’t make him sick now.”

She sighed heavily, nodding in resignation and acceptance. “You’re right, of course. I don’t mean to shame you, Carver. Just—take care of yourself, and remember to write to us!”

“I’ll write,” he said. “But I should board the ship now, Mother.” He turned to Anders, Caitlyn, and finally Mal. “You lot take care of each other too.”

The words were spoken roughly, but Caitlyn realized that they were sincerely felt, and that he was hiding his feelings under brashness. “We’ll do that,” she said huskily. She stepped forward. “Carver—I hope this is everything you want it to be. I think it will be.”

“If it’s not, I’ll just ask to get reassigned to the Ansburg post after all,” he said, but this gruffness didn’t last at all. A sheepish chuckle escaped him. “I think it’ll be good for me too, though.” He gazed up at the ship. People were boarding.

The Hawkes and their companions realized that the time had finally come. They made their final farewells, and Carver stepped onto the ramp. He looked back at them with an expression of genuine peace and compassion that Caitlyn realized she had almost never seen on his face before. Although she would miss him, she knew then that it truly was right for him to do this.

* * *

Caitlyn woke up in a cold sweat, shaking.

_He did not die of the Blight sickness,_ she told herself repeatedly.  _He became a Warden. Anders saved him. He sailed to Highever yesterday and is going to serve under the Hero of Ferelden._ She knew these things to be true, and yet, the nightmare vision she had just had was still horribly fresh in her mind: Carver’s blotchy, ghoulish body, lying in a pool of his own blood in the wretched Deep Roads, surrounded by heaps of cold, mocking gold. Anders had not been there in the dream; he had stayed behind at her persuasion to watch Mal, and in the Fade, she had hated him for it even though it had been her fault.

Caitlyn supposed that she should have expected this. Her mother’s fear and anxiety had been openly and clearly expressed, which had been embarrassing for Carver, but to Caitlyn’s knowledge, her mother did not have nightmares more often than the average person. She and Anders did.

Being conscious in the Fade as a mage did not help. In some ways, it made it worse to know that this was a dream, but to be able to do nothing to force herself back into the physical world. It was also harder to reshape the Fade to something better when a nightmare was particularly powerful, based on deep-seated, gut-wrenching fears and shaped further by her own worst moments. Before, she had harbored hate for Anders based on Bethany’s death, and she was sure that this was why that particular element had been in the sequence. But the combination was crippling to her, leaving her with little choice but to see it through until her mind became strong enough to leave.

A quick, faint flash of light blue lit up the bed. Anders was stirring, and she felt bad for waking him up. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered to him. “Just a nightmare.”

He blinked awake and pulled her close without a word, rubbing her shoulders slowly to dissipate some of her tension. “You’re all right,” he murmured. “Was it about Carver?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “And... us.” She had not meant to tell him about it, but the words tumbled off her lips now that he had asked. “You didn’t go on the expedition in the dream, and... I... was blaming you....” She squeezed her eyes tightly, abruptly changing her mind about talking to him about this. “It’s just a stupid nightmare.”

“That’s exactly right,” he said softly, wrapping an arm tightly around her. “Go back to sleep, love, and if you have another one, remind yourself that _here,_ out of the Fade, I’m holding you.”

He was holding her very close indeed, and at this moment, she knew she would remember.

* * *

Leandra kept herself busy the day after Carver’s departure by arranging the house the way she liked it. In many instances that meant rearranging decorative items in circles, finally deciding on the original placement after all. Caitlyn and Anders quickly recognized the fact that this was essentially a nervous tic and did not interfere with her as she did it.

Anders, in fact, wanted to go to his clinic. “There could be sick or injured people at any time of day,” he fretted. “Fereldans are always at risk in this city. That reality does not take a day off....”

Caitlyn had been on the floor, playing with Baldwin and Mal, but at this remark, she glanced up sharply. _“You_ are entitled to days off, however,” she said. “We just moved into this house.”

“If someone died because I was not at the clinic....”

“Anders, people die for lack of a Healer all the time. You cannot save everyone. This is your _family._ You should be here—today, at least. We’ve hardly had a chance to relax!”

“Some people die because they are afraid of magic, or don’t know how to find me, or are just too ill to travel and have no one to carry them there. It’s sad, but I’m not to blame for those. It’s different if they go to the clinic door and it’s locked because I’m not in!”

“That could have happened already,” she pointed out. “You often stayed the night in Lowtown when I lived there.”

He pulled his coat on. “It’s different. People understand that services like that are not guaranteed at night.”

“You went to the Deep Roads for several days.”

“And that’s exactly why I should be there today.”

“Anders, you _cannot_ single-handedly heal every sick person in Kirkwall who seeks it out. No one mage can. The problem is that Healers cannot operate openly to serve the public... except Grey Wardens. It is not _your_ duty to compensate for yet another wicked policy about mages!”

“I disagree,” he said sharply. “I have the power to do this without... much... fear of reprisal. True apostates cannot. Therefore, I _should_ be the one to do it until we can get that policy changed.”

“I want to go, Father,” Mal spoke up.

“Of course you may,” he replied.

Caitlyn scowled at Anders. “Fine!” she exclaimed. “I can’t prevent you if you’re going to be this stubborn about it. But I think you should consider whether you’re truly doing this out of altruism or if it’s actually a way to make yourself feel better about deaths that you wrongly think are your fault.” She paused before adding, “If you want to make it up to my family in particular, you should stay here.”

He drew his breath sharply at that. “If I do have blood on my hands, there is nothing in the world that can truly wipe them clean,” he replied. _“Nothing_ can reverse a death, not even saving the life of somebody else.”

“I never said it was about ‘reversing deaths.’ I implied that it might be about settling a debt that you feel you owe. And is this Justice speaking?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.” He picked up his staff and took Mal’s small hand in his own. “You want us to be together, but this doesn’t have to separate us. You could come with us too.”

“I have nothing to do in the clinic,” she replied. “I know one healing spell. I’m staying with Mother so she won’t be alone the day after Carver left for Ferelden! I’m sorry that you don’t agree.”

Anders knew a “blame apology” when he heard one. He scowled back, and with that, left the room without another word, heading for the basement with Mal.

* * *

She was moody for the rest of the day, spending time with her mother but not saying much to her as they worked on the house. Leandra had not overheard their spat, so she assumed that Caitlyn simply had not gone to the clinic because healing magic was not her strength.

They reached a room where many of the crated and boxed items still rested. The two women went to these crates and opened them. Caitlyn found herself gazing into one that contained Amell blades that suited nobody; Carver had already helped himself to what he wanted from these crates. She wondered idly if these might suit one of her friends, perhaps Fenris....

Leandra peered over her crate and suddenly let out a sob. Caitlyn hurried over to see what it contained, what terrible memory had just been triggered....

Bethany’s lute lay before them.

“Mother,” she said, steering her away and placing this crate to one side on the floor, “it’s going to be all right.”

“Nobody can play it now,” she said unhappily. “I should have learned, but I was never interested in learning music as a young girl... and you cannot....”

“Perhaps Anders can.”

She shook her head. “Not unless he learned over the past four and a half years! Remember, in Lothering....”

Yes, Caitlyn remembered. Their family evenings in the big common room, when all of them were still alive, had often featured Bethany’s music. Even afterward, Leliana had sometimes led musical sessions. She, Caitlyn, had actually been able to sing, though she had not sung in a long time, since before they left Ferelden. Anders could not even carry a tune, though. It was probably hopeless.

“Maybe Mal will want to learn someday. Let’s just keep it in the crate for now,” she said. “I’ll take it to my bedroom.” She closed the crate.

Leandra was dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll come back to these crates later,” she said. “I... cannot handle any more surprises just now, so soon after Carver left.”

Caitlyn understood that, and she led her mother to a different room, where furniture was still arranged haphazardly. The slaver gang, at least, had not destroyed or sold most of the Amell family items that had survived Gamlen’s spree of profligacy. Leandra gazed around this room, staring at an antique Tevinter-make table, then shook her head.

“What’s the matter?” Surely there were no unpleasant memories associated with this... unless there were some from her mother’s youth that Caitlyn could not guess at.

“We should wait until Anders comes home, to ask him, before moving any furniture,” she said, stepping away.

Caitlyn’s hackles rose. She was already annoyed with him for the spat this morning, and it was incomprehensible to her that her mother would want to ask his opinion of what to do with _their_ furniture, the pieces that had belonged to _her_ family. She was also quite certain that Anders would agree and not have an opinion anyway, but that did not matter; even if he did have a preference, it was not his decision. “Oh?” she said hotly. “And why is that? It’s nothing to him.”

Leandra gazed sideways at her in confusion. “How can you say that? This is his home. He’s going to be family—already is, in a way.”

“This is our furniture, Mother— _your_ furniture. And yes, it may be his home, but this house is deeded to you, you know, as the proper heir of the Amells.”

Leandra closed her eyes and sighed, then opened them again. “I suppose... perhaps so.”

_“Perhaps?_ It  _is!_ Mother, do what you want with your own furniture. I assure you, Anders will not care in the slightest. Even if something goes into our bedroom, or Mal’s, he’ll assume I approved that—and he would be right.” She hated using that argument after all, but it might be the only way to get her mother to drop this.

Somewhat to Caitlyn’s consternation, the concern lifted from her mother’s face at those words. “Oh,” she said in natural tones. “Well, if you’re certain of that, that’s different.”

As they began to rearrange the furniture, Caitlyn considered the conversation in light of her mother’s behavior over the years.  _ She always wants to find some man or other to defer to, _ she thought sourly.  _ For a long time it was Father. I noticed that years ago. Even though he never took advantage, I did notice it. Then it was Uncle Gamlen, and she justified that because it was his house. She even tried to let him have final say on things that involved my decisions for how to raise Mal, like exposing him to my uncle’s behavior. I don’t suppose she ever did it with Carver... but if he had stayed here longer, and Anders did not live with us, I’m sure she would have eventually. _

Caitlyn recalled that it was seemingly common practice for Kirkwallers to make ugly comments about women. She even remembered Isabela’s warning about the regulars of the Hanged Man. And she recollected that frightening experience working for Athenril in which she had had to use lethal magical force to defend herself from a group of well-heeled Hightowners who intended to assault her. In addition, all of Mother’s stories about the Amell family of her youth had centered on a domineering family patriarch who made all the decisions. Even in the story of her elopement, Leandra had made it plain what a frightening choice it was to defy her father, and how she considered her brother Gamlen’s slimy plan to marry her original betrothed and claim that the baby— _me, _ thought Caitlyn—was the child of that man instead. Perhaps this was just how Mother was...  _ but I’m not going to let it continue here, _ she vowed.  _ If she must defer to somebody else because she doesn’t want to make decisions herself, she’ll defer to me. Or at worst, to Anders and me together. I will insist on it if this continues. _

* * *

Anders and Mal returned that evening, each of them very pleased. Mal was visibly proud of himself, and Anders let him tell his mother and grandmother his news himself.

“Guess what?” the child exclaimed as Anders helped him clean his hands for dinner. He did not wait for anyone to guess. “Father told me how to make balm, and gave me the ’gredients, and I did it!”

Caitlyn attempted to swallow her irritation over the day’s most annoying conversations. It was not Anders’ fault—and it certainly was not Mal’s—that her mother apparently thought the way she did, and, too, she supposed she was glad that the workday at the clinic had turned out so well for Mal, even if she still thought it had not been truly necessary for Anders to go today.

“That’s wonderful!” she said to him as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I’m proud of you.”

“It was the most basic elfroot balm,” Anders whispered in her ear, “the one that requires no mixing in a concentrator agent. But he really enjoyed grinding the plants with mortar and pestle!” He spoke this second sentence aloud, so that Mal could hear.

The child beamed up. “It was fun!” He made fists and mimed crushing something with them.

“Any emergencies?” Caitlyn said to Anders as Leandra hurried her grandson to the dinner table.

Anders looked at the floor. “No emergencies,” he admitted, “but who knows? Maybe someone I treated today would have been at risk of death tomorrow if I hadn’t been there.”

Caitlyn stared pointedly at him. “You will work normal hours,” she warned him, “unless you really do have a patient whom you must watch constantly. The easy access of this house to the clinic does not give you a reprieve from your duty to your family.”

Leandra looked up in surprise at her daughter, and her face filled with consternation.

“I would never deliberately neglect my duty to my family!” he exclaimed. “Maker’s breath, I was forcibly separated from my family for over four years!”

“Most people do work during the daytime, Cait,” Leandra offered hesitantly. “You never had to see that in Ferelden, because we farmed, and because of you, Bethany, and Malcolm... but it’s true.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that fact, Mother,” she said tartly, “and I have lived that sort of life myself for almost a year and a half now. I’m not asking him to neglect the clinic. But things must be different now that he does not live there full-time or sleep overnight.”

“It will be different,” Anders reassured her, stepping closer and taking her hand.

Leandra beamed, pleased that they had apparently resolved their brief dispute. “Wonderful,” she exulted. “Now, let us all have a seat and enjoy this nice dinner. Anders... won’t you sit there? This was my father’s chair....”

As she pulled him to the head seat, Caitlyn’s face contorted in renewed irritation. At least her mother had seated them next to Anders on either side, and Mal next to her on her other side, but this just brought back the frustration that she had felt earlier. _I shouldn’t make a scene,_ she thought. _As far as Anders can tell, she means this as an honor and a compliment to him, nothing more. This really does not matter compared to... the other, her inclination to defer._ But as she sat down, she realized that she would need to have a talk with her mother about this eventually, or else it might seep into her relationship with him. As long as he did not take advantage of her mother’s behavior, that would be unfair to him, and she didn’t want anything else to come between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as they do love each other, they also have very real personality differences, and it's canon that Anders' sense of what is the right thing to do - what he feels morally compelled to do - sometimes results in him doing his own thing and being at odds with Hawke, even the most mage-friendly Hawke possible in the game.
> 
> Leandra's behavior (which is _not_ entirely canon, but is something I've picked up by reading between the lines) doesn't help, though.
> 
> I made a custom doll of Caitlyn! [Here is a link to pictures of her](https://betagyrewrites.wordpress.com/2018/12/23/ooak-custom-doll-hawke/). This is pretty much exactly how I imagine her, and it's different from what is actually possible in the character creator without hair mods, but, uh, _this fic_ is different from what is actually possible.


	24. To Pledge for Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration is the title of a song by Falconer on the album _The Sceptre of Deception_.

That evening, they all sat in the family sitting room. Leandra had taken out her charcoals and was attempting to do a portrait, something she had not done since Malcolm had died. Anders was seated at a desk along one wall, writing some sort of long, multi-page document with a look of intense, almost furious concentration on his face. Caitlyn was reading a book to Mal, who was listening intently and sometimes even saying the next words before she did. She wondered if it was that he had memorized this book, a young child’s version of _Black Fox,_ or if he had already learned to read without her knowledge. Memorizing books was a step right before reading on one’s own, anyway, and he _was_ going to be four years old this month. It was young to be reading, but not unheard of, and she already knew that he had a gift for language with the way he spoke and the fact that his diction had been so good for over a year and a half. At least Anders would get to witness this epochal event in Mal’s development. That thought made her happy; he would finally get to see a milestone for his son.

 _It is Wintermarch,_ she thought. _Anders and I met about five years ago. I wouldn’t have opened up to him at all if I’d known that the Templars would take him away for so long...._ She glanced at Mal, then Anders. _And that would have been a horrible decision. I know I would have chosen to avoid that pain then, at age twenty... but I would make a different decision now if I were faced with that choice. I was a different person then. Now, there is no chance that I would let them, let Circle policies, dictate the manner in which I pursue happiness or whom I choose to love._

A knock sounded on the front door, and she jumped in her seat. Leandra set down her charcoal pencil and rose to her feet at once, hurrying to answer the door. Her face was white. It was too soon for a letter from Carver, and Caitlyn realized what her mother likely feared. _We would have heard earlier today if the ship had sunk,_ she thought. _It sailed yesterday and it is a very quick trip._ But she still held her breath until she heard a pair of voices in the foyer of the house. She was reasonably sure that she had heard the second voice before, but she could not place it....

“Caitlyn,” Leandra said, emerging back into the sitting room, “this is a Chantry sister who says that she knows you and Anders....” A look of confusion and mild alarm filled her face, but Caitlyn instantly knew who it would be, and sure enough, Sister Petrice trailed behind her mother, a calculating and faint smirk on her face.

“Yes,” Caitlyn said at once as Anders turned around from his desk. “It’s all right, Mother. She knows our ‘secret’ too. It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Leandra said. “I see! Well... won’t you have a seat, then?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Petrice sat down in an empty chair and put on her friendliest mask. “I heard of your recent re-acquisition of this house, and your son’s induction into the Grey Wardens, and I came to offer my congratulations.”

 _That’s not all you came for, I’m sure,_ thought Caitlyn.

“Oh,” Leandra said again. “Well, thank you, sister. I am certainly glad to possess it again, though it came at quite a price.” She sighed. “My son _had_ to join the Wardens, if you follow me.”

“Carver is perfectly happy with his career,” Caitlyn reminded her.

“Yes, my daughter is right; he is,” she said to Petrice.

“And you still have family with you,” purred the sister. It sent a chill down Caitlyn’s back.

Her mother, however, did not detect the insincere affectation of kindness, or perhaps it was that she did not know what Petrice was capable of. “Yes,” she said innocently. “That makes quite a difference. I wanted this house not for myself, but for the future of this family.”

“I am sorry to interrupt your evening together,” Petrice said smoothly, “but in addition to offering my felicitations, I actually came to discuss the future of your family.” She gazed pointedly from Caitlyn to Anders, then back to Leandra, clearly waiting for the older woman and small child to leave—or for the young couple to leave with her to a private room.

“Oh!” Leandra said, her face lighting up, certain that she knew what Petrice was alluding to. _Mother probably isn’t wrong at that,_ Caitlyn thought, _but I’m sure that’s not all, either. She is going to want our support now that we really are “folk of Hightown.”_

Anders gathered the sheets of paper on which he had been writing and rose from his chair. “I suppose we should show you to a private study, then,” he said, obviously just as suspicious of this visit as Caitlyn was.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” Leandra said. She got up and lifted Mal from Caitlyn’s lap, along with the book. “I can finish reading to him in his own room. Of course you want your privacy!”

Once she had taken Mal upstairs, Caitlyn turned to Petrice with a pointed look. “Well,” she said, “Anders and I are... a bit more sophisticated about certain things than my mother. I’m quite certain that this visit is about more than you told her.”

Petrice smiled back, almost a leer. “Of course it is.”

Anders sat down beside her on the divan, clutching his papers. Caitlyn glanced over quickly and caught a snippet of a phrase.

  


_If the Maker blamed magic for the magisters’ actions in the Black City, why would He still gift us with it? The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker._

  


That was interesting, she thought. Wasn’t it just a few days ago that Anders was arguing with Carver about whether magisters really had stormed the Black City to become the first darkspawn? _This seems to be a political document, not a diary. Perhaps he referred to it because he knows most people do believe that. Or perhaps he’s reconsidering his own memories of the Architect._

“My mother introduced you as ‘Sister,’” she said to Petrice in genial tones. She took Anders’ hand, pointedly showing Petrice their rings. “As you can see... well, we would like the services of a priest pretty soon, and we both agreed that it should be you. When do you think....”

“I expect to be ordained in two months,” Petrice replied. She smiled in approval at the rings, though it was more of a smirk. “I am glad to see that the two of you are making your relationship right in the Maker’s eyes.”

Anders tensed aggressively, and Caitlyn squeezed his hand as unobtrusively as she could manage to tell him to relax and let her handle it. She was not sure if Petrice genuinely believed that or if she was saying it to try to seize “power” in their conversation. She _had_ grown up in the midst of the Game. But whichever it was, Caitlyn did not see the point in rising to the bait. “We meant to do it four and a half years ago,” she replied, “but circumstances interfered.”

 _“Templars_ interfered,” Anders muttered, unable to remain silent.

“Yes, there are unfortunately many who took oaths to Our Lady who are actually acting against what the Maker would will,” Petrice said.

“You truly don’t have a problem with two mages marrying?” Caitlyn said.

“There is no prohibition of it in the Chant of Light. Your parents’ marriage was valid, and Grey Warden mages have been married through the years. Of course, it usually does not happen in the Circles, due to the authorities’ discouragement of it, as you both know better than I.” She brought her hands together and twined her fingers as she peered out calculatingly. “I will be happy to do it for you as soon as I have the right to do so. But you know that is not the main reason I am here.”

Caitlyn had suddenly had quite enough of Game-playing. She could do politics, she was quickly realizing, but her general nature was to be forthright. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s speak freely. It makes it easier, so we don’t have to guess. You want to be the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, don’t you?”

Anders drew back with wide eyes, shocked at her bluntness, and gave her a look askance. Even Petrice was taken aback for a second. But in the next second, the woman’s face became shrewd again.

“Yes,” she said, “I do. The Chantry of Kirkwall needs new leadership, leaders with _vision,_ who see the myriad threats to this city with clear eyes and neither turn aside, appease the threats, nor, in their own pride, try to fight with one hand—or _both—_ tied behind their backs!”

“Myriad threats to the city, you say,” Caitlyn repeated. “Besides the Qunari, what do you see as those threats?”

“They hardly bear repeating to _you,_ either of you,” she said with a shrug. “You have fought them for as long as you have lived here: criminal gangs, Tevinter slavers, and the scourge of poverty that leads the poor to choose gangs or heretics such as the Qunari who offer them an alternative. I do _not_ see the Circle mages or most hedge mages in Kirkwall as one of those threats, if that is what you are asking. In fact, that is what I meant by fighting with hands tied behind one’s back. You and Warden Anders have demonstrated that. The mages of Kirkwall could do much good to alleviate the suffering of the poor, combat these criminals, and menace the oxmen into leaving. Tevinters are heretics too, of course, but... they are _less_ heretical, and there is a reason why Tevinter has never fallen to the Qunari. Perhaps that is why this Arishok is here: They realize they are unlikely to conquer Tevinter, and are looking instead to the southern countries as easier prey.”

 _I don’t want to call anyone heretics, but at least we are on the same page about why the poor often do what they do,_ Caitlyn thought. “I agree with you about the Qun,” she said. _I’m not sure that we dislike it for the same reason,_ she thought, _but we do both dislike it._ “And I agree that the Arishok, as a head of government, has a reason for being here that has nothing to do with being ‘stuck’ here and unable to take ship, and I also agree that they’re not being forthright with the Viscount about anything.”

“You disapprove of the Viscount,” Petrice said. She leaned forward slightly, eyeing Hawke with interest.

Caitlyn considered for a moment whether to tell this to Petrice, but decided that she probably should. The woman apparently had sources, and she might find out about it through other means and distrust Caitlyn in the future if she didn’t divulge it now. “His son went off to try to—to join the Qunari, I think,” she said. “Dumar didn’t approve of that, but in my opinion, he’s been far too lenient with a foreign armed force that would take his only child away without question if Saemus thought he wanted to join them. I cannot imagine that Saemus truly understood what it would mean, and I’m sure the Qunari let him continue in his ignorance if it benefited them. He must have thought that he would still get to be his father’s son under the Qun but just live a different, simpler lifestyle.”

Petrice was deeply interested in this. “Of course they would lie to him or conceal the truth,” she said. “And Dumar still doesn’t want to give them an ultimatum to leave. What will it take, if the prospect of someday losing his own _son_ to them cannot convince him of the danger? It seems hopeless that he can be strong if the bond of parent and child is not enough! I’m sure neither of _you_ would accept it without a fight if _your_ son were taken away forever by someone!”

Caitlyn was certain she knew where Petrice was leading with this, and why she had specifically contrasted the present Viscount with her and Anders. Her tone of voice was too dramatic and affected, and that last remark was so blatantly designed to manipulate and flatter that Caitlyn was almost embarrassed for the Game-player’s lack of subtlety. “Sister Petrice,” she said smoothly, “Anders and I have discussed what we would do in that very circumstance—though I should say, we are far more likely to lose him someday to the Circle of Magi than to the Qunari.”

“Unless the Qunari conquer Kirkwall someday.”

“Yes, that might be a risk indeed,” she agreed. “Neither of us knows exactly what they intend, but they’re not being honest or open, which doesn’t bode well. And the Qun is an ideology of conquest.” _So is Andrastianism,_ she thought, _but much of the trouble with the Chantry comes from the decisions of Divines and priests, and doctrine is more malleable than the Qun._ “You’re here to broker an alliance with us now that we have made good on the goal I mentioned in Lowtown. I agree with you about the Qun, and it seems that you agree with us about mages.” She took a deep breath. “Anders and I are extremely dissatisfied with Elthina’s leadership, to say the least. The rampant poverty among my countrymen and the elves in the alienage is a disgrace—and as you say, a threat to Kirkwall, because they _will_ turn elsewhere if they have no hope.”

“And however poor and weak they are, they are children of the Maker too,” Petrice said airily.

Despite the condescension in that remark, Caitlyn was surprised that Petrice did not seem to share the same degree of bigotry for Fereldans and elves that she had seen on display so often... but then, Petrice was not a Kirkwaller by birth either. The Orlesians certainly had no love for Fereldans or elves, but perhaps being forced to leave her country under threat of death and being a foreigner in a place as provincial as Kirkwall had made a small difference.

“Yes,” she said simply. “So—I will support your ambition, provided... certain things.”

Petrice raised her eyebrows. Beside Caitlyn, Anders shifted, shuffling his papers.

“First, I realize that as a new priest, you would need to take a strong leadership role to have a chance of replacing her. I also realize that the obvious... venue... for that is to speak against the Qunari to draw a contrast between yourself and the current authorities. I will back you, provided that you don’t hurt your own cause with your tactics. No more playing games with innocent civilians,” she said, giving her a hard glare. “That is a line for me. And frankly, you shouldn’t want to do it anyway. It exposes you to criticism that you could completely avoid otherwise. Just speak your message directly to the people.”

Petrice scowled but assented reluctantly. “All right. It will be... unusual... for me, an approach I have never taken, which is rather frowned upon in my home country, but there is much power in rallying crowds of rabble.”

“Do all that you like of that,” Caitlyn said. That was not exactly what she’d had in mind, and she had a moment’s concern at the idea of telling a potential demagogue to rile up angry mobs, but if the alternative was for Petrice to get more bystanders hurt or killed by tricking them, there was no choice. She felt Anders shift again beside her and continued, because she knew what he wanted her to say. “Another thing—and this is something that _we_ want. _If_ you achieve your goal and become Grand Cleric, there are... things we’d like changed.”

Petrice glanced at them. “I imagine there are. What do you have in mind?”

“We will want the mages of the Circle allowed to see their families on a regular basis,” she said immediately. “It is cruel to tear parents from their children, sisters from brothers, spouses and lovers from each other.”

“I agree, and this is why many in the lower Orlesian nobility defy that. The family is the Maker’s first institution and it is not for people to destroy it without good cause.”

Caitlyn wondered if this woman would have a religious reason for everything. “So, you’ll force the Knight-Commander to change that, then? And there is one other thing.” _For now,_ she added in thought. “I want—we want—the Rite of Tranquility banned in this city. We have reason to believe that it is being abused.” She didn’t think it should ever be done, but she decided not to say that just yet.

“It _is_ an abuse,” Anders burst out, unable to constrain himself.

To Caitlyn’s surprise, Petrice agreed with him. “Yes, I think it is as barbaric as what the Qunari do to their mages. It denies mages the opportunity to come to the Maker of their own free will.”

 _Yes, she will have a religious reason for everything,_ Caitlyn thought—but if it served their goal, so be it. They would need to persuade the devout of the rightness of their cause too. “We may have other ideas about the Circle in the future,” she said coolly, “but that’s it for now.” She paused as something else occurred to her. “I do have a concern about something else, something related to the prospect of speaking against the Qunari. Do you think....” She hesitated, considering how to phrase this vague concern. “Do you think Elthina would change her tune if you made a leader of yourself and obviously posed a threat to her power? It could be dangerous if she did.”

“She is more likely to plot against me—against us, if she knows you are with me—in secret than to change course and recant her statements openly. She presents a certain face, but she is a schemer too. You should be aware of this possibility.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Thanks for the warning.”

“The Viscount, it seems, is also a problem. Something might need to be done about him too.”

Anders sat upright and stared hard at the sister. Caitlyn bristled as well. “Sister Petrice,” she said sharply, “I am not going to participate in a plot to—well, to ‘do anything about’ him in the way I think you’re implying.”

“But Serah Hawke,” Petrice said, her expression a cunning grin, “how, then, will you achieve _your_ ambitions?”

She took a breath and steeled herself. Anders seemed to think that Petrice was only referring to their shared ambitions to reform the Circles much more radically than she had mentioned tonight, but that was not so. This was the very subject that Varric had hinted at the previous night, the subject that had frightened her then, and Varric had alluded to it much more obliquely than this. But if she wanted to do it, she would have to face it and speak of it, and she knew that.

“We can ‘do something about him’ by letting his son continue his infatuation with the Qun, then reveal that at the worst time for him—or the best one for us,” she said. “If the Grand Cleric has tied herself to him, it could be used to discredit both of them. Then there would be calls for a new Viscount... or Viscountess,” she said blithely, though beside her, Anders gave her another shocked glance as he understood her at last. “Kirkwall doesn’t have a long-standing ruling family; the nobles of Hightown are not fettered to that tradition, so it would most likely be someone who already had support among them as a secular leader to complement the religious one.”

Petrice nodded, apparently confirmed in her own suspicion. “It’s a plan. I will certainly keep in touch with you about when I am ready to act, and I will notify you as soon as I have been ordained.” She rose from her chair. “Please give my regards to your mother.”

* * *

“Cait,” Anders said that night, after they had said good night to Leandra and Mal, “were you suggesting what I think you were, regarding the Viscount?”

She nodded. “It’s a scary thing to consider... but yes. I think it’s necessary in order to do what we want to do for our kind.”

“It’s probably also necessary to keep that woman from knifing you in the back once she has what she wants,” he said with a glower. “If a mage patroness became a liability, she would. I still don’t completely trust her.”

“Neither do I, but you’re right. She won’t decide I’m disposable if I become powerful enough.”

He gave her a tender smile. “I never imagined you would want a crown—a diadem, whatever.”

“I’m not sure I do,” she confessed, “at least, for myself. But... I want it for others.”

He nodded. “I noticed that you said you would have other ideas for the Circle reforms. You already have some, I bet.”

“Oh, yes. To start with, every single Healer, allowed to serve the public.”

He laughed wryly. “You aren’t going to let that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not. You belong to this family, not the whole city of Kirkwall. I know you feel the compulsion to do this, and it’s kind and compassionate, but others should be free to do this work too. Though I’m sure none of them will be as good at it as you,” she said, feeling a slight twinge of guilt for her earlier comments to him about it.

He smirked. “Justice would say that I should not give in to pride....”

“But _Anders_ probably agrees with me, does he not?”

He pulled her close and planted a kiss on her forehead, not disputing it whatsoever. She was deeply amused, and she was feeling good enough after this evening’s events that she had managed to release all of her frustrations from earlier in the day. Her mother’s behavior wasn’t his fault, anyway.

Anders let her go. “I do have misgivings about giving her approval to rile up ‘the rabble,’ as she calls it.”

“I can’t say that it sits well with me, either, but I’m surprised that _you_ would say that! Unless I am very mistaken, you were writing a political document this evening, some sort of mage rights manifesto....”

“Oh, you saw it?” he said, grinning. “Well, yes. That’s exactly what it was.”

“Then why does it bother you for someone to appeal to the masses with manipulative rhetoric?” she teased.

“I’m not trying to manipulate! I believe in my cause.”

“I’m sure she believes in hers too—and really, Anders, of course you’re trying to manipulate,” she said. “That’s the point of manifestos! Manipulation doesn’t mean _dishonesty..._ though I have to say, I’m very interested that you referred to the magisters in the Black City.”

“I... suppose that it might be true,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “The Blight came from somewhere, and Justice is very confident that the Black City is indeed Tainted... but nobody has ever been able to reach it in the Fade except possibly those magisters, so how did the Blight get from the Black City to Thedas? This is about reason, not blind faith,” he insisted. “And it’s disgusting that anyone uses something like that to condemn all mages. I stand by what I wrote.”

“Of course it is disgusting,” she agreed softly, trying to calm him. “I was only teasing you.”

He nodded. “I know. Honestly, my worry about her riling up people with ‘torches and pitchforks’ is that I think she cares a lot more about the Qunari than the plight of mages. The point of this alliance, from your perspective and mine, is to help mages.”

“She does, and it is, but _I_ care a lot more about the plight of mages than the Qunari, and we _do_ agree on both issues, even if we don’t share the same amount of... fervor. That’s politics: ‘This is more important to me and that is more important to you, but we agree, so we’ll ally.’”

“I guess so!” He leaned over and gave her a kiss. “When it comes to that goal, I’m with you every step of the way, love.” He chuckled wryly. “And you know I’ll speak up if anything ever... concerns me.”

“You and Justice both,” she said. She leaned over and draped herself across him in an embrace, and in a few moments, they were back to the pattern of tender motions that was by now so, so familiar once again.

* * *

Anders headed to the clinic the next morning as usual, picking up his staff and heading toward the basement. Caitlyn did not try to stop him; since he had been determined to go even the day after Carver had left, there was no excuse whatever that she could attempt on him this time. _And I have asked him to accept and live with a “career” that would be truly disruptive, and a political approach for it that he doesn’t really like,_ she thought. _I suppose... it’s fair for him to ask this of me._

However, when Mal determinedly tagged along with him, it gave her a pang to watch that happen again and again. Part of her thought that this might still just be Mal’s awe of his father and the comparative newness of Anders in Mal’s life—but she was not sure of that now. They had known each other for several months; if Mal were not actually interested in healing, that would have asserted itself by now, surely. In all likelihood, the child really did prefer his father’s use of magic to heal people to his mother’s use of it to harm enemies. _It’s the escape from Lothering that traumatized him, and then the first year in Kirkwall in which I came home talking about having to defend myself with magic,_ she thought. _I’ve used magic indoors for domestic purposes, like cooking, or force spells to move and manipulate objects, but he really must not like seeing it used to maim and kill, even though he understands that those I do that to are bad people—or monsters._ She felt sad and a little jealous, though she was ashamed of that latter emotion. If Mal was more like Anders in disposition, that was no bad thing. She and Anders were living together—they were going to _marry_ soon—but it still felt to a part of her like losing Mal because her choices were unappealing to him.

 _Am I going to lose everyone I love if I do achieve my ambition?_ she fretted. _Be left with no one but allies of convenience like Petrice, because all of my family and friends have charted their own paths? Will Anders and I end up sharing a bedroom and little else someday, and I will no longer be close to my own son? Will my friends be replaced with officials and advisors?_

She breathed heavily and tried to clear her thoughts. This was ridiculous. She had just come into wealth, and her ambition was little more than a gleam in her eye yet. _I won’t allow that to happen,_ she vowed. _I would hate to drift away from my friends, especially Merrill and Varric, but if this ambition does come to pass, I will not sit back and let them go. And Anders, at least, will be with me all the way. This cause is as important to him as it is to me. There is no way whatsoever that he will retreat into the shadows and be satisfied healing refugees if I—face the thought, name it, Caitlyn—become Viscountess of Kirkwall someday. Justice wouldn’t be satisfied. He will be my closest, most trusted advisor. Of that I’m certain. This is temporary, and it’s being exacerbated by the fact that Carver has left and my mother has been difficult. I’m letting my anxieties run away with me._

Calmed, she sat down at her desk to read her letters—and Anders’ manifesto.

He was quite a persuasive writer, she realized with surprise after finishing the document. Rather than being a furious, vengeful diatribe, it was an impassioned, articulate, learned plea that illustrated its author’s intelligence and dedication to this cause. It invoked the history of Thedas and the use of mages to quell every single Blight—including the most recent one—as well as the support of the Circles in the Exalted March against the Qunari. She noted with amusement that Anders even mentioned his own defeat of the Architect, though not in a boastful way. The document also contained personal stories, both his own and those he had heard from patients, whether the families of mages or those whose fears of magic were overcome when magic saved the life of their loved one. And to her surprise, the manifesto made arguments similar to those she had heard from Leliana about why it was not blasphemy to allow mages the freedom to live as other people did, but was the right thing to do. Anders believed in the Maker, she knew, and apparently he now entertained the possibility that the Blight really did enter the world through the actions of seven ancient blood mages. But he also regarded Andraste as more of a political leader against an oppressive empire than the literal voice of the Maker. She wondered if that might be the influence of his spirit, who apparently believed that he and other good spirits were the original voices of the Maker. Still, Anders evidently saw the necessity of arguing his case to the faithful, and he did not regard _faith_ as the problem—just the institution that claimed to represent it.

She set the manifesto down, rather awed by it, feeling very warm and affectionate toward its author, and determined all the more that he would be her partner in this enterprise. _He would insist on it anyway,_ she thought with a smile. Her day was suddenly looking much better.

* * *

Over the next few days, the pile of mail on that desk grew, including two letters that they had all been waiting to read: one from Carver and one from the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. The one from Lady Cousland was a thick parcel, in fact.

Carver’s letter was succinct and unemotional, apparently meant to calm Leandra’s fears that he would not arrive safely. He was at Vigil’s Keep, and the other Wardens had welcomed him warmly. There was another Warden post at an isolated fortress called Soldier’s Peak, captained by Loghain, but Cousland did not seem inclined to send him there, he thought. The Wardens would go on periodic patrols of the Deep Roads to continue to clean up Ferelden after the Blight, but no one seemed particularly worried about these patrols. Most of the mage Wardens apparently were based at Soldier’s Peak, Carver reported, but Cousland did have a Dalish battlemage who said she knew Anders and a new Healer Warden from the Mages’ Collective.

Leandra was greatly relieved to have this letter and carried it around the house for much of the day, holding it to her chest and smoothing it out before reading it again and again. As Caitlyn observed her mother’s behavior, a new idea struck her. As frustrating as her mother could be, and as inappropriate as her clingy behavior was with adult children, she really had been terrified of losing another child.

 _None of us got to mourn Bethany properly,_ she thought suddenly, _and we have all suffered for it. I’ve blamed everyone but myself for it, then, finally, wallowed in guilt to the point of destructiveness with regard to my relationship with Anders. Carver also blamed himself, or felt that he failed as a man—especially after Ostagar—and it compounded his resolve to go on the Deep Roads expedition. And Mother clung to all of us, even Mal, terrified that we would be taken from her, because she saw the one thing a parent should never, ever have to see, and it shattered her. We never got to grieve for Beth properly because we immediately had to survive in Kirkwall by becoming smugglers, and until Anders came to the city, we didn’t even have her ashes._

_Maker. What shape would this family be in now if we hadn’t met him again—if he hadn’t come? Carver would be dead, we would be in debt to the Carta, and I would probably no longer be motivated to care about anything except shielding my own son from life—just like Mother._

When Anders came home that day, she gave him a warmer-than-usual hug, which also lasted longer than usual. Mal was pleased to see his parents being affectionate and beamed as they embraced. Anders did not know exactly what was up, but he didn’t question it. She had been unusually tender to him a few days ago, he recalled, and it turned out that she had been greatly moved by his manifesto.

“What brought this on?” he finally asked as she drew away.

“Mother and I heard from Carver, and after that, I was just thinking about how much you’ve done for this family,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you the other day about going to the clinic.” She nodded at the desk. “There’s a package for you from Lady Cousland.”

He went over to the desk at once and popped the seal. The letter was much more informative than Carver’s, and Anders found that the parcel also contained a small vial of opaque glass.

  


_Warden Anders,_

_I appreciate the very interesting and thorough report of darkspawn activity in the Deep Roads site that you marked in your enclosed drawing. It is concerning to me that you and your companions encountered so many, but this is apparently evidence that they have begun to return to the Deep Roads and repopulate them in earnest. The respite that Wardens scouting the Deep Roads, as well as our dwarven allies, had immediately following the Blight is likely over. I have also taken note of your addendum regarding the strange red lyrium. I have never encountered such a thing in my travels, but I shall examine the dwarven Shaperate and perhaps the Circle library to see if others have experience with it. That your dwarven companion would feel nothing from it is expected, but it is odd that a fellow mage would have a different reaction from yours. The fact that Serah Hawke responded somewhat differently could indicate that you experienced what you did for reasons other than magic. Warden Carver says that you did not pass through the thaig again on the way out, but I am wondering if I should write to Warden Stroud and ask him if he reached it and felt anything unusual. That could help to narrow down whether your reaction was due to the Taint or the presence of Justice._

_I am glad that you could save a life by administering the Joining potion and am impressed with Warden Carver’s skill at arms. He has integrated into my unit well; I deemed it inadvisable to assign him to Warden Loghain’s troop at Soldier’s Peak, given his experience at Ostagar. Please keep the remaining vials of ingredients in case you need to use them on anyone else._

_I am also grateful to you for aiding the widower and child of one who fell in defense of my family. Gawain is tending the grounds at Soldier’s Peak, due to the special consideration of his daughter. Warden Anders, I understand why you sent them out of Kirkwall, if the Templars there are killing children, but you should know that I cannot guarantee her freedom in Ferelden either. Since the Circle was almost destroyed during the Blight, the Knight-Commander—with the approval of the Grand Cleric of Ferelden—has been engaged in a harsh crackdown on the Mages’ Collective, arresting as many of them as he can to refill the depleted ranks of Circle mages. I believe that is the purpose of the “roundup,” and there is no indication that the mages who are captured are being killed or made Tranquil in above-average numbers (in fact, there seem to be fewer of both, further supporting my theory), but you should know this if you are personally invested in the freedom of the young girl. I have done what I can to keep her from being separated from her father, but I cannot make any promises. There are no age limits on who can be conscripted, but that is an option of last resort for a child. Someday she may choose to join us of her own accord; for now, I shall not force such a thing upon a healthy young girl. Several mage Wardens serve at Soldier’s Peak now and I have assigned a tutor to her who has no association with Warden Avernus. I have restricted the nature of the research he may do, but I would not put any mage who is drawn to him in charge of the tutelage of a child, and I had that liberty in large part due to the Templar crackdown across Ferelden. As you may have been aware, I did work for the Collective during the Blight. I have made it publicly known that any apostate who volunteers to join the Grey Wardens will have sanctuary from the Templars. This decision has not made me very popular with the Knight-Commander, but I have the backing of the King and Queen in it, and this policy has replenished the ranks of mages in the Grey Wardens._

_I have news to report concerning Warden Avernus and his research, which relates to the package included with this letter. He believes he has made a breakthrough despite my restrictions, and it is true that all of the Wardens who took the enclosed potion experienced remarkable effects from it. Although he freely acknowledges that he has stayed alive well past a normal human lifespan due to blood magic, he attributes the fact that he never had a Calling to his experimental potions. He cautions that it may not have this effect for everyone, nor does he promise that it will have any impact on more subtle effects of the Taint (he too experiences Warden nightmares). He informs me that a disturbing implication he has discovered is that powerful, intelligent darkspawn such as the Architect—if any others remain—could manipulate the Taint to influence the thoughts of Grey Wardens, and that his potion may increase that risk. Despite this caution, most of my Wardens chose to reap the benefits, including Warden Carver, but I leave the choice up to you. Please destroy it if you do not take it._

_Finally, on a personal note, I offer my congratulations to you on your upcoming nuptials. As I stated in a prior letter, I was delighted to be wrong about the fate of your lady and son. I will certainly permit Warden Carver to attend, and with your permission, I may wish to send another Warden—preferably one whom you know from your time in Amaranthine—to Kirkwall with gifts for you and Serah Hawke. Do let us know the date as soon as you are able, if this is agreeable to you._

_Elissa Cousland, Warden-Commander of the Grey in Ferelden_

  


Anders held the vial in hand as he passed the letter to Caitlyn to read. The bit about Avernus might verge on being Warden secrets, but he did not care if she saw it. She was going to marry him; she had the right to know these things.

 _Warden Avernus is a blood mage,_ he thought. _I’ve never met the man, but Cousland, Loghain, and Oghren all seemed to know it from meeting him during the Blight. This potion came about from blood magic, I’m almost certain—even if she did put restrictions on him. And this caution about intelligent darkspawn being able to manipulate our thoughts through the Taint, like an Archdemon could direct the thoughts of the darkspawn themselves...._

He glanced at Caitlyn, who was getting visibly steamed, he guessed about the passages relating to the crackdown on the Mages’ Collective. Sadly he supposed that the organization had always been living on borrowed time. It depended in part on buying off mage-sympathetic Templars with black-market lyrium, and perhaps some key individual had been discovered—or died at last of the toxic effects. At least Cousland was offering another option to these mages—but at a terrible price, for even if Avernus’s potion could prevent a Calling, it apparently could not prevent the other effects.

 _Justice already thinks he can prevent the Calling for me,_ Anders thought—but then he looked at Caitlyn and at Mal. _But what if he’s too confident? What if something happens in my lifetime to strengthen the Taint more than he can counter? They know for a fact that Avernus didn’t have one. Justice is confident, but my case has never happened before._

_This potion is the product of blood magic and probably murder, and it could open me up to suggestion by another like the Architect, if there are any others._

_Which there may not be. The Architect was active for years. Surely we would have heard of it by now if there were another.... And Justice wouldn’t stand for it. He would fight it._

He glanced at them again. _I would not do this just for myself... but for them, I will._

Caitlyn gasped as he uncorked the little flask and downed the potion. She dropped the letter on the desk and held him, supporting him just in case he collapsed—but he did not. Instead, he felt stronger than ever.

“Anders,” she whispered, realizing what he had just done.

He glanced up at her and managed a smile. “It’s all right,” he reassured her. “I’m all right. And... as you saw... it seems that your brother might be too.”

She stared at him, grimacing for a moment, before finally nodding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. The political scheming part is a preview of the direction the sequel will take. I did say this was going to become quite AU.
> 
> I'm making an extrapolation about the surprising, disturbing side effect of Avernus's potion, but he sends his research notes to Weisshaupt if you let him live, and later on, Weisshaupt turns out to be up to no good in this specific regard.


	25. Maybe Then This Moment Will Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another lyric from _Beethoven’s Last Night_ by Trans-Siberian Orchestra, this from "The Moment".
> 
> This may be the darkest wedding chapter I’ve ever written… but somehow that seems fitting for them, and it’s not all dark. I just realized, as I was writing it, how completely and utterly fucked up these characters are— _all_ of them, even in canon, let alone in this AU. And that really came out.

_Two months later, early Drakonis 9:32._

Perhaps it was because of Mal; perhaps it would have happened even if Caitlyn had not met Anders until they both lived in Kirkwall, but after the family took possession of the mansion again, that became the meeting place for Caitlyn’s friends rather than the Hanged Man. It afforded much more privacy, it was safer, and it did not require Caitlyn and Anders both to leave their son behind with his grandmother while they talked and conspired with their companions.

“You’ve convinced me, Blondie. The drinks are much better here,” Varric remarked one night to Anders when the entire group was present in the living room, talking late into the night after the older lady and the young child were both in bed. Varric, of all the companions, had been most loath to leave the Hanged Man in favor of a Hightown estate—Caitlyn attributed that to unspoken issues with his brother and his parents—but at last he had come around.

Caitlyn was ensconced comfortably on a seat for two, next to the fireplace, with Anders by one side. His left arm was around her waist. On her other side, in a separate chair, was Isabela. She sprawled over it with one leg hitched over the armrest, offering a view of her smallclothes to Fenris, who was seated directly across the room next to Varric. He was studiously avoiding the sight and drinking wine.

Isabela admired the sapphire on Caitlyn’s finger as it glittered in the flickering flames. “That’s a nice jewel,” she remarked. There was a touch of hunger in her eyes, but Caitlyn knew that some things were off-limits even to a professional thief and pirate, so she was not worried.

“It was Anders’ mother’s ring originally,” she said. “He first gave it to me in Ferelden. I spitefully left it behind when we fled the Blight, but he went to our old house when he escaped, saved it, and gave it to me again.” She touched her feather ornament in her hair. “This too, which he made for me. And... my sister’s ashes.” It was the first time she had told the whole story to her companions. No one, in fact, had known the full truth except Anders; her mother and Carver had apparently assumed that she had just stopped wearing it until he proposed to her. But saying it at last was like lifting a weight off her chest. Anders realized that and tightened his hold around her waist.

“Aww,” said Isabela. “Very sweet.” She gazed at Anders, then across the room at Fenris, a strange, almost pained look on her face. “It’s... almost enough to make me—” She broke off at once.

_Believe in love?_ Caitlyn wondered. She decided not to discomfit Isabela in public, though. She knew that this subject made Isabela uncomfortable and defensive.

Isabela spoke up at once, before anyone else, most probably Merrill, could quiz her on her unfinished statement. “It’s a fine ring,” she said, back to her old, carefree self. “Nice jewelry is almost reason enough to marry—unless you can get it by  _other_ methods. You could’ve, Hawke, so I’m a little surprised that you actually want to go through with this, no offense, Anders. I was married before, you know—and then had to, erm... well... I’m not implying  _that_ for you, of course—”

“I should hope you’re not implying for us what _you_ did,” Anders said, his tone suddenly very cold. “You were forced to marry someone you didn’t even like. That makes a big difference.”

“Exactly. I was forced. _Choosing_ to be tied down is even stranger to me,” said Isabela. “But—everyone’s different.”

Caitlyn was also rather put off. Isabela had been so close to a major revelation, but she had turned aside from it because it became too uncomfortable for her, and now, she was making flippant and rather hurtful comments to cover for it. She had hired an assassin to kill her abusive husband, and it was exceedingly insulting that she would allude to that in relation to Caitlyn and Anders. However... Caitlyn knew that picking a fight in front of all of her friends would accomplish nothing and would probably only cause Isabela to dig in. She decided to try a different tactic. “Yes, everyone likes different things,” she said, “and I like being tied down if he’s doing it. Anders can tie me down whenever he wants to.” She gave the pirate a quick wink.

Isabela burst into a wicked grin and chortled in delight, but the rest of the companions were much more uncomfortable. Anders’ eyes popped wide open and his face flushed pink as he gaped at her in astonishment—not that she would admit to enjoying that; he knew that already, but that she would say it in front of everyone. Aveline muttered and shook her head; Varric gave Cait a look askance, and Fenris spat out his wine into his lap as his face twisted in disgust at that image. As he did, Caitlyn noticed that a quick smirk formed on Anders’ face at that. Merrill only looked confused—until Varric whispered in her ear, and then her elven eyes grew as wide as plates.

“Well,” Aveline said, rising to her feet, “I think that’s it for the night.”

“Yes, let’s leave the lovebirds to it,” Varric agreed, though he was feeling far more awkward than disgusted.

“Indeed,” Fenris said, mopping up the wine and standing up. “I would tell them to get a room except that they have one upstairs.”

“Isabela and I were just running on. I didn’t mean to clear the house,” Caitlyn said at once.

Varric smiled reassuringly. “You didn’t, Hawke. It’s late. It was already time to clear out.”

She managed a smile. “Well, if you say so.”

“I do say so.”

“Yes, enjoy what you have together,” Aveline said sincerely.

Caitlyn felt bad for her old friend; Aveline had lost her husband in the escape from Lothering. Perhaps someday she would find love again... but in the meantime, there was no reason why others should sacrifice love. It wouldn’t help her, and, though she was evidently quite traditional and upright, she did not begrudge others their foibles and kinks if they were committed.

As the group of companions left the house, Caitlyn turned to Anders with a pointed smirk.

“As the lady insists,” he purred in response, rising to his feet with her hand in his. She laughed eagerly as he pulled her to her feet and led her upstairs to their room.

* * *

With Petrice’s ordination as a priest of the Chantry, the Hawkes and Anders began to accelerate their plans for the big event—though they did not agree about just how big it should be. Leandra in particular seemed to want to fall back into the noble lifestyle she had known years ago, though in a new role now. Caitlyn thought sourly that it was rather hypocritical of her mother to play the enthusiastic wedding planner when she had certainly upended _her_ parents in that—not that it stopped Leandra.

“This was my dress,” she informed Caitlyn cheerily one day soon after they set a date, pulling an off-white gown with a high waist from a trunk.

It was a very pretty dress, Cait had to admit; delicate lace in cream and gold adorned the neckline, sleeves, and hem, and pretty gold flowers were picked out in outline on the short bodice. The colors would flatter her. Still, Caitlyn found her mother overbearing. She was doing this because she loved Anders, because it should have happened four and a half years ago, because her son should not be deemed illegitimate, and because it was important to be “respectable” to pursue her ambitions, in that order—not because she wanted to celebrate a day all about herself. Her mother seemed to have forgotten all that they had lost. _Is that the one they picked out for you to wed Comte de Launcet in?_ Caitlyn thought darkly. But before she could ask the question, her mother answered it.

“It isn’t the one I was _supposed_ to wear, of course, but I was three months from having you, and that necessitated a change,” Leandra explained, lifting out the flowing skirt. The high waist and filmy, loose skirt would flatter a pregnant belly—but Caitlyn was not pregnant. _And if Anders is right about the Taint, I never will be again,_ she thought. This only increased her annoyance—and her mother’s next words did not help.

“The color is eminently suitable, of course,” Leandra continued, oblivious to the growing glower on her daughter’s face. “It follows the Orlesian ‘rules,’ which dictate that only, er, virgins should wear pure white... but although I suppose no one would have enforced those rules for me, I was supposed to wear off-white under them, since I was marrying my child’s father and had never been married before and had no other ‘history’ with men—just like you, darling! It’s meant to be that you should wear this dress, and you will look lovely.”

She handed it to her daughter, who was, by now, rather offended. She snatched the dress out of her mother’s hands icily. “Thank you for that, Mother,” Caitlyn spat.

Leandra looked confused. “Darling,” she said, “have I offended you? I didn’t mean to—I never judged you for your relationship with Anders. I know how young people in love can be, from personal experience!”

Caitlyn took a breath and tried to swallow her anger. “I know,” she said. It was true; of all the people who had insulted and judged her over the years for being a single mother, her family—her _immediate_ family, at least—had never been among them. “But the ‘Orlesian rules’ themselves are rather insulting.”

Leandra looked utterly crushed, and Caitlyn felt bad. “It’s still a pretty dress,” she reassured her mother. “I’ll be happy to wear it—but because it was  _yours,_ specifically the one sewn for you to marry Father rather than that Comte, and not because it follows ‘Orlesian rules.’” She gave her mother a cynical smile. “I have to wonder how many Orlesian brides who wear pure white have had enough partners to fill a barracks, but their families ‘silenced’ anyone who knew.”

Leandra’s eyes widened in shock. “I... suppose you may be right,” she admitted. “Hypocrisy and lies... while brides like I was, and you will be, are expected to wear something else because we had ‘consequences’ of having just one partner.”

Caitlyn sighed. “Mother, you know I slept with Leliana too.”

“I... suspected it... but they wouldn’t count her.”

“Which is an entire manifesto in its own right,” Caitlyn retorted, “but I’m not going to try to reform Orlais. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is....” She broke off, realizing that she had not confided in her mother about her long-term plans and ambitions.

Leandra did not suspect anything unusual, however; her thoughts were otherwise occupied. “You  _have_ talked with Anders, though, I hope...?”

“We’ve talked about everything,” she reassured Leandra, “that included. He understands.” She decided not to tell her mother about Karl; it was Anders’ right to decide who knew about that, not hers. “I love him so much. He’s the only person I want for the rest of my life and he feels the same about me. We’ll be fine, Mother.”

Leandra smiled. “I can see that love in your eyes—and his too. I don’t know if you know it, but sometimes when one of you is occupied at the desk with a letter or reading to Mal, the other will stare for a long time, saying nothing, just... gazing. I’m not sure if you realize how much time passes.”

Caitlyn was startled. She realized that she did do what her mother said, and it didn’t shock her that Anders did it too, but it  _was_ a surprise that her normally oblivious and naïve mother would notice. “I didn’t know you saw that,” she said quietly.

“It reminds me of how your father and I used to look at each other.”

Cait managed a forced smile. “Well... when we were all together in Lothering, I sometimes thought about what Anders and I had in common with you and Father. I just... wish it had turned out better then. For all of us,” she added, turning aside, as she stood up.

* * *

Anders, in the meantime, did not have anyone to assist him—or bother him—as Caitlyn did. Determined to appear as a mage, he picked up a nice set of robes from the secret stock of his preferred private vendor in town and considered himself ready. Varric stepped into the role of advice-giver when Anders finally realized that he was a little frightened, not having seen a happy marriage between two good people since Malcolm Hawke had died, and not wanting to use his parents as an example for himself. What Varric had to say was minimal.

“Hawke doesn’t take criticism well even if it’s about something she _does_ care about improving, and she knows how to cook because of necessity rather than enjoyment, so compliment anything she makes even if it’s bad. Talk about everything involving the little boy with her first. Don’t let her go to sleep pent-up and unsatisfied... but I doubt _that_ will be a problem. And for the love of the Maker, never take coin that belongs to her.”

Anders blinked. “That’s it?”

“Blondie, you can’t seriously expect that _I_ will have any marital advice for you about emotions or things like that. Do you realize what my household was like when I was growing up?”

“I... suppose that makes sense. I can’t believe you’d think I would steal from her, though!”

Varric smiled wryly. “When you’re family, it doesn’t feel like stealing anymore to do it—but it does to _have_ it done to you.”

“You’re speaking of your brother and that incident in the Deep Roads,” Anders guessed. “Varric, not everyone is like him. I’m never going to help myself to anything that belongs to her without asking.” He paused. “Why are you still thinking about that idol anyway? We got the treasure. He got that. I’d say we came out better.”

Varric shook his head as if to clear it. “You’re right,” he said abruptly. “I shouldn’t....” He trailed off and thumped Anders on the back congenially as he got to his feet. “You’ll do all right.”

* * *

_“Mother,”_ Caitlyn said sharply, “enough is enough. I am not carrying flowers and I am not wearing a veil.”

Leandra’s face fell as she set down an antique bridal veil that she had found in the attic. “This belonged to your grandmother Amell,” she pleaded.

“Whom I never knew,” Caitlyn retorted. “What is her bridal veil to me? I’ve agreed to your dress because it was yours. This is different. If it was so important to you, _you_ should have worn it.”

“Cait!”

“I’m not doing it, Mother,” she insisted. “I’m not going to cover my head and hold flowers as if I were a sweetly smiling innocent.”

“I thought you didn’t approve of the Orlesian customs....”

“It’s not about the Orlesian customs. If I _wanted_ to wear a veil, I’d do it even if Mal stood right next to me before the priest. I mean ‘innocent’ in a different way. Mother, this family has been decimated. Anders and I lost four years together. You may not realize what a struggle it was for us to get back together at all, we were both so sad and bitter—and different from how we used to be. I’m not going to wear that or carry anything. It’s not appropriate anymore.” She glowered. “Anders bought robes from this seller he knows in Lowtown. He has sensible ideas about all of this.”

Leandra sighed. “I suppose you are right. I just wanted to... well, to try to forget all of that for one day, but it is  _your_ day, and if you cannot do so, I shouldn’t try to force you to.” She raised her gaze to her daughter, a mild smile on her face again.

Caitlyn breathed out slowly in relief, closing her eyes, ignoring her mother’s voice as she continued to speak. She had just had enough of it for now.  _It’s more than wanting to forget about the pain for a day. Mother wants to be an Amell again,_ she thought in frustration.  _Having this house again has brought it out. She wants to be a lady of leisure and doesn’t understand that Anders and I have no intention of resting. She probably wants to have the fancy wedding day in the family estate that she didn’t get when she chose Father. Her mother’s bridal veil! Fresh flowers! What was she thinking? This wedding is going to be at the end of Drakonis, barely days into spring! The guests will probably still need to use the coat closet!_

“...I know how this is going to sound, but I believed it myself and learned otherwise. Love isn’t enough, darling. It’s necessary, but it’s not enough on its own. You can’t take each other for granted, or your relationship, and the challenge you’re about to face is that you’ll feel ‘secure’ now and may be tempted to do that. I learned it myself early. A certificate from the Chantry cannot substitute for real consideration and compassion....”

Caitlyn blinked. Her mother had continued to talk while she was ensconced in her own thoughts, and she had not heard most of what her mother had said—nor registered the import of this bit that she had heard. “Right, then,” she said at once, cutting her mother off before Leandra could say more. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Leandra was left holding her mother’s antique veil as her daughter walked off. She was not sure if Caitlyn had actually paid attention to her... but there would be other opportunities to talk.

* * *

Anders had spent another full day at the clinic, and he  _was_ keeping longer hours now—and Mal had been with him. When he at last emerged from the basement entrance, smelling of medicinal herbs and lyrium, he said that there had been a violent altercation between Qunari and a civilized Tal-Vashoth who called himself Maraas, and the Tal-Vashoth had won—but at a heavy price. It was the first time he had had to treat a patient of the qunari race, and it had been an unequivocal emergency.

“The Arishok has claimed that they are all violent savages once they leave the Qun, and most of the ones we’ve had to deal with _have_ been, but this one....” He trailed off, shaking his head. “They tried to cut his horns off. There was no reason to do that; it’s like they wanted to humiliate him before they killed him. _That_ is savage. He just wants to live his own life and make his own decisions. I understand _that_ perfectly, and it makes me think that the real reason they want to kill all deserters is that they don’t want anyone countering them about life under the Qun. I... never thought I’d say this... but maybe the priest has some valid points....” Anders broke off, deeply disturbed by the day’s events.

“I remember that qunari,” Caitlyn said, her brow furrowing. “I’m glad he’s still all right, though he ought to leave Kirkwall and go someplace else. _Anywhere,_ really.” She gazed at Mal, whose eyes were wide. “Mal, if you are ever disturbed by what you see in your father’s clinic, you don’t _have_ to go anymore, you know. You could stay here. He won’t mind.”

“Oh, no, Mamma,” the boy said eagerly. “It’s interesting! I see blood sometimes, but we all have blood, so it’s all right. And Father knows how to make it stop coming out.”

Anders beamed fondly at him and mussed his hair. “That’s my boy.”

Caitlyn sighed as they walked away to clean themselves up.

* * *

Isabela and Varric turned up at the house that evening, late, for drinks and snacks. Caitlyn was relieved for the company. She felt a low simmer of persistent irritation after the discussion with her mother and Anders’ late return—and, she supposed, the fact that his lateness was completely justified. Somehow that made it worse, because she knew it would be unreasonable to scold him if people really did need his help.  _I’m not supposed to take him for granted,_ she thought sourly, recalling the bits she had heard from her mother and twisting them unconsciously in her mind, altering the memory, to make her mother’s advice one-sided.  _What about him? I have to share him with every needy person in Kirkwall, it seems—and Mal too, now. Isn’t he taking me for granted?_

“You look down, Hawke,” Varric remarked. “Rough day?”

She nodded, scowling. “You could say that. Mother wanted to doll me up for the ‘big day’ and then offered me unsolicited advice once I told her to back down. And Anders came in late.”

Isabela smiled wryly. “What did I tell you? That’s why I like to keep all my options open and not be tied down. Figuratively, not literally,” she added.

Caitlyn’s expression soured even more at this smug cynicism. “Isabela, I’m not like you. I  _want_ commitment and permanence, and being ‘tied down’ applies to what Anders and I  _already_ have. That’s not the problem. I’m just sick of everyone else being selfish! My mother wants  _her_ fancy noble wedding day at long last, and is trying to have it vicariously through me, and Anders is pulling Mal away from me, whether he means to or not.”

Varric and Isabela exchanged concerned glances. “Hawke,” Varric said, “he had never even met Mal until eight months ago. He wants to see as much of Mal’s childhood now as he can. The lad is interested in healing right now, because that’s what his dad does. It could just be a phase—or if it isn’t, it means that’s what he  _likes._ Don’t you want him to find out what he likes and who he is?”

She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. “Of course I want that!” she exclaimed. “Ugh—I suppose it sounds unreasonable when you put it like that. I don’t know. I’m just frustrated. I felt happier in the little nook in the clinic just after reuniting with him.” She glowered at her lap. “When you think about it,” she muttered, “it’s rather ironic that the priests of a religion in which the prophet’s husband betrayed her to her death would be the ones to solemnize marriages. Maybe that’s the problem.” She scowled. “I doubt I would have bothered if I didn’t have other plans,” she continued recklessly. “The people of Hightown would expect it, and I wouldn’t stand a chance of... what I want to do... otherwise. That’s really the primary reason.”

_“What?”_

The speaker was not Varric or Isabela. Suddenly horrified, Caitlyn looked up sharply at the balustrade, where Anders had emerged from Mal’s bedroom moments ago. He looked devastated.

Varric and Isabela winced as he hurried downstairs, his face crumpled. “I didn’t mean that,” Caitlyn burst out immediately as he reached the lower floor. “I really didn’t. I was just irritated.”

Anders looked unconvinced, but Varric spoke up. “I believe her... Anders,” he said, surprising him by the use of his real name rather than a nickname. “I don’t think she meant it either.”

He breathed out and nodded briefly, but he did not reach out for her or try to move closer, instead standing at the foot of the stairs. Feeling awful, Caitlyn rose to her feet and walked over to him. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she said, touching his chest and gazing into his face. “I was just spouting off my mouth because I’m frustrated about some things.”

Anders put her hand aside. “So the remark would have passed unnoticed if I hadn’t appeared.”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” Varric interjected. “I was going to call her on it.”

“It is a consideration,” Caitlyn admitted, her gaze cast down, “but it’s the least important one. I swear, Anders. I was just blowing off steam.”

The guests got to their feet. “I think it’s time for us to make an early departure,” Varric said. “Sounds like you two need to talk alone.”

When they were gone, Caitlyn and Anders remained in the now empty sitting room, in separate chairs, rather than going to their bedroom. He stared ahead, brooding, as the remaining embers of the fireplace gradually died out. “Cait,” he said heavily, “I’m sure now that you didn’t mean it, but you shouldn’t say things like that if you don’t mean them. It’s not a game.”

She stared unhappily at him. “I know,” she agreed. “I know. I’m sorry.” She leaned forward, resting her head in her hands and closing her eyes.  _ I promised I wouldn’t be cruel to him again, _ she thought miserably.  _ I gave him my word. That wasn’t meant for him to hear, but he heard it anyway—and this means that I’m falling into my destructive habit again. _ She felt like a failure.  _ I had a right to be frustrated, but I made it worse yet again. _

A light touch brushed her shoulder, and she lifted her head. He was standing beside her, gazing gently at her. “Cait,” he said, “what’s wrong? Is this about the long hours I put in today?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I know you only do that when a patient needs you. I can’t say I don’t miss you when you’re gone, but I would not want anyone to die for it. It’s....” She gazed ahead at the dying fire. “I’m afraid,” she whispered, realizing it as soon as the words tumbled from her lips. “Mal wants to spend the days with you now, because he likes what you do—and meanwhile, I am stuck in this house with Mother, who has been trying to make me into the wealthy Hightown bride that she never was. It’s irritating in its own right, of course, but that’s going to pass once the wedding is over. But Anders, this is my _mother,_ and although we were never as close as my father and I were, it’s gotten worse lately, and I blame this house for it. It’s turning her into a person she hasn’t been in years. It makes me think... I’m afraid that I’m going to lose everyone once I start to do—what we discussed a couple of months ago.” She closed her eyes again and shook. “That there will be nothing left but artifice and pomp, nothing real—not even relationships. I guess... when I made that comment, I was actually thinking of that fear and trying to persuade myself that it didn’t bother me, although I didn’t realize it.”

Anders was silent for a moment, taking in what she said, and then he pulled her gently from her chair and embraced her. “That doesn’t have to happen if we don’t want it to,” he said in a quiet voice, caressing the back of her head with one hand while the other arm was wrapped tightly around her waist. “I don’t think we found each other against all odds only for work to slowly drive us apart.”

“But if you are a Healer who must work long hours, and I’m a political figure who also must....”

He considered that. “I will always want to help people,” he acknowledged, “and I know that some things may need to change once you start to progress toward your goal—and especially if you do achieve it. I’ve thought about it. If it’s ever infeasible for me to work from the Darktown clinic, I will just offer healing from somewhere else—and as you say,  _ I  _ won’t have to do it all by myself anymore if we succeed!” He caressed her cheek. “I’m a Healer... but you know, love, I’ve got another side too, the same side that you have. You’ll see more of that in the future. I’m doing what I can to help mages right now, to make people realize the good we can do. Once I’m able to do more....”

She nodded, feeling momentarily comforted—but only momentarily. “But that means that we  _ are  _ marrying for politics—for the ‘cause.’ That this is what our partnership will be about.”

“I don’t see it that way,” he said. “It’s just one aspect—and besides, there’s a big difference between two people who share a passion, which is what this is, bonding in part over that passion, versus two people forming an alliance of convenience.”

“Our relationship cannot be separated from this cause anymore,” Caitlyn said. “It shaped us too much. Before, perhaps—but not now. I made peace with the idea that it was for the greater good that we suffered, because I _have_ to think it means something. It’s too much to bear otherwise. And I know that if we’d never been separated and you’d never become a Warden, I might have been content living the sequel to my parents—with everything that implies, including terror that our family would be destroyed. It’s not how I truly would have wanted to live. I _want_ to set things right, to make it better, to make it so that Mal never has to have that particular fear and neither do we again. But the cause is so important to us and what our relationship is now, what will that leave us once the cause is put to rest? The couple from Lothering is gone, love. Mother doesn’t want to see that... it’s another reason why her attentions are getting under my skin; it’s like she’s trying to forget all that we’ve lost.”

He gazed ahead, past the top of her head. “I don’t think the couple from Lothering is gone, even now. There is more to both of us than being revolutionaries.”

“Since I came to Kirkwall, I’ve been fixated upon getting this house, first to protect the family from further turmoil and destruction, then as a casting-off point for greater ambitions. I’ve forgotten what it felt like... before,” she whispered.

He chuckled. “And yet  _ I’m  _ the one who houses a spirit of Justice.” He pulled her down gently onto the divan. “Cait. I know. I understand.” His gaze became very intense as she raised her eyes to look into his. “Ever since I took him in, I’ve struggled against being utterly and completely consumed with the cause to the point that I feared losing everything else about myself. And not only the cause for justice, either, but the drive for revenge against those who hurt us. I haven’t told you that.”

“You’re scaring me, Anders. This isn’t comforting.”

“It _is_ scary,” he said. “It scared _me_ when I realized it. I don’t want to lose the rest of myself to that, important though it is, and I sure as the Void don’t want to lose myself to hate and vengeance. I _know_ how you feel, love.” He pulled her very close and rested his head atop hers. “I know. I know. And it’s always a struggle, as long as the injustice is so great.”

“How have you kept from... losing? Since you _do_ have an actual spirit of Justice?”

“You,” he said simply. “You and Mal. Your mother. Even your Maker-blasted brother,” he said with a laugh. “Our friends.” He caressed her again. “Being a Healer. Having other people and things that are important, and making time for them.” He paused. “And you may not want to hear this, but as annoying as your mother’s _actions_ may be, she isn’t wrong to want to remember what it was before. I don’t think she’s forgetting the dark parts, but you _are_ forgetting happier times, as you said yourself. Try, love. Please try to remember what else you are.” He lowered his gaze again to meet her eyes, and a mild smile formed on his face. “Maybe if that day comes, we can have that peaceful, normal life after all—well, as normal as it could be for what we’d have become by then.”

She felt tears spring to her eyes. “I have used magic to try to stop crime in the city, and earn coin when I needed it, but I don’t actually like being a killer. Before I became so determined on our cause, I just... expected to live a quiet, anonymous life, using magic domestically. I don’t even have any hobbies. Bethany was the artistic one. If I’m no longer a vigilante, no longer trying to feed the family, no longer a revolutionary someday... well, I’ll always be a mother, but he’s growing up so fast, and he’s bonding with you. You’re a Healer, but _I_ don’t know what else I am.” The words sounded petulant to Caitlyn’s own ears, but she meant them, and she hoped Anders took them seriously.

He was silent, considering what she said. Finally he turned to her again. “Well, you have time now to find out, or to decide that for yourself. You  _ don’t  _ have to endanger your life to put food on the table anymore, and the political scheming won’t start immediately either. If you’re not artistic... well, maybe you can focus on magical specialization like I did.”

“A better way to throw fireballs and freeze things!” she laughed cynically.

“I didn’t say it had to be elementalism. There are all kinds of interesting magical theories, and your family brought most of your books with you.” He ruffled her hair. “Try it, love. When Mal comes to the clinic with me, spend the time reading rather than letting your mother bother you or brooding darkly about the future.” He rose to his feet, pulling her gently with him.

She knew, as they ascended the stairs to head to bed, that he was right, and she was glad to have had the conversation. It really did make her feel better, and that feeling compounded because it reinforced that he was good for her.

The next day, she ensconced herself in the library, which had been restocked with the Hawkes’ books about magic, as well as some Tevinter tomes formerly belonging to the slavers that Caitlyn strongly suspected were about forbidden magic. Dutifully avoiding those books despite a guilty curiosity, she browsed until she found some interesting titles. She did not have an immediate epiphany about what she wanted to do, but she was feeling much better now. The epiphany would come, she was sure—and in the meantime, she had a wedding approaching.

* * *

“Carver!” exclaimed Leandra, hugging her son. He patted her back awkwardly with one arm. Although he was out of heavy armor, he was still wearing chain mail with a Grey Warden tabard on top, he had a greatsword strapped to his back, and he had two very long wrapped parcels under his free arm—gifts for Caitlyn and Anders, obviously staves, but they were still eyeing them with interest, eager to find out what specializations and enhancements they had.

Behind Carver lurked another Warden, who was carrying a pack on his back and a large box with a handle on top in one hand. A cloth was draped down the box, a hole cut out for the handle.

“Nate!” exclaimed Anders, heading toward his old comrade as Carver greeted his family.

Nathaniel Howe smiled. “Anders. Congratulations.” He set down the box. “I know the gifts should be opened later, but this is a special situation, and I doubt you’ll mind the breach in protocol!”

A very displeased meow came from inside the box, and Anders’ heart leaped. _Could it be?_ he thought. _Yes, it could—_ and as Nathaniel lifted the cloth, Anders gasped out in delight. His cat, Ser Pounce-a-Lot, whom he had left behind with Delilah Howe and her husband Albert, gazed back at him from behind the wire, tail flicking back and forth. The cat meowed again, and Nathaniel opened the cage door to let it out.

Anders was on the floor as Pounce jumped into his lap, purring and rubbing against him. Caitlyn turned around from welcoming her brother and burst into a beautiful, genuinely happy smile that warmed his heart. He had rarely seen her smile like that in Kirkwall. She was a dog person, he knew, and she would need to train her mabari to accept Pounce as one of the pack, but she didn’t have a problem with cats and was happy for him.

“Come on,” Anders said, scooping up his cat and carrying a very satisfied Pounce to the nearest chair, where he sat down. Pounce settled himself in Anders’ lap and continued to purr.

Nathaniel sat down in a nearby chair. “My sister and her husband decided that the time had come to return him to you once they heard that you had a good place to live.”

“Well,” Anders said, petting the cat, “I’m glad they did! How are they, by the way? How is _everyone,_ for that matter?”

“They’re doing splendidly. They are expecting an heir, and I say ‘heir’ because my sister is the Bann of Amaranthine City now.” As Anders’ eyes widened, Nathaniel smiled in satisfaction. “Lady Cousland recommended my sister, and the Landsmeet acclaimed her. Bann Esmerelle is dead.”

“Oh,” Anders said. “Well... I can’t say I’m sorry, especially since your sister is the new bann.”

“No one misses Esmerelle,” Nathaniel said. “Let’s see... the Warden-Commander is well, but busy with paperwork and rebuilding. She sends her regards. Oghren and Felsi live in separate rooms, but they are married, so I guess that works for them. Sigrun is with Mischa now.”

“Really?” Anders said, surprised. “I had no idea that Sigrun... I thought they were just friends.”

“So did all of us, but they are a couple. Oh—and Loghain is marrying Ser Cauthrien.”

“Erm... who?”

“Oh, that’s right—you wouldn’t know much about her because you were in West Hill for most of the Blight. She’s the commander of Gwaren’s militia.” He smirked wryly. “Nobody is that surprised about it. I think _Loghain_ is more surprised than anyone, to be quite honest.”

“Is anyone _not_ in a couple now?” Anders laughed.

“Avernus.”

Anders groaned in disgust, as Nathaniel burst out laughing. He collected himself and then answered his friend seriously. “All right. Velanna’s still single. And so am I.”

Anders suddenly felt bad. “I’m sorry, Nate,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be flippant....”

“It’s fine, Anders. I’ve found that... I’m satisfied with my life. Maybe someday I will feel differently, but right now... I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I am content.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation before Anders leaned over conspiratorially. “Could you tell me anything about those staves?”

“You’re not supposed to know that they are staves,” replied Nathaniel.

“Then you lot should have hidden what they are better than that,” he rejoined.

“And no, I’m not going to tell you about them right now. I’d probably get it wrong anyway. There is a scroll about each one wrapped up inside.”

At this moment, Caitlyn walked up to the chair, Mal in front of her, eager to see the cat.

“Is this...” she began to say.

“The cat is Ser Pounce-a-Lot, and the Warden is Nathaniel Howe,” Anders said with a smirk. “Nate—Caitlyn and Malcolm Anders Hawke, known as Mal.” The little boy beamed a sparkling smile at the introduction with his full name.

“It’s an honor to meet both of you at last,” said Nathaniel. “Your brother has talked about his family, of course, but it’s different to actually meet you.” He smiled at Anders. “I’m glad that someone else had a happy resolution to ‘family missing in the Blight.’”

Anders took Caitlyn’s hand in one hand and Mal’s in the other. “So am I.”

* * *

Leandra had had her way about Caitlyn’s dress and a fine banquet at the house, but very little else. Caitlyn had held her ground about the veil and bouquet, as well as much decoration in the mansion itself, and Anders had flatly refused to be married at the Chantry. It was associated with the dark, sad memory of Karl for him—and for Caitlyn, though for a guiltier reason in her case. The couple had also refused to let her invite people to a mage wedding that they did not know, so in the end, it was a very small and private event in the house with no one other than the family, their core group of friends, Nathaniel Howe, and the priest. Leandra had invited Gamlen, who had actually shown up, much to Caitlyn’s dismay—but she seemed to have her brother under control for this one occasion, and he apparently had just enough gentility left that he did not want to spoil this day for his niece.

Despite the fact that her conversation with Anders had helped soothe some of her fears for the future, Caitlyn had expected her dark cynicism about the wedding to continue. Although she truly had not wanted the sort of event that her mother would have planned, for a while she _had_ deliberately kept festivities to a minimum out of gloomy respect for their losses. She and Anders would stand near the hearth, where the urn and purse of ashes rested. Mal would be seated next to his grandmother closest to the couple, no longer in gowns but breeches and a coat, a reminder of the lost years and the siblings that his parents had originally meant to give him but now couldn’t. Mother Petrice, whom Caitlyn knew to be a schemer, who probably would be a dangerous demagogue in the near future, would perform the ceremony, a chilling reminder of the challenges, practical and moral, that lay ahead for them in their pursuit of their cause. Due to all this, Caitlyn had convinced herself for a while that this wedding was a shabby patch job for something beautiful that had been broken beyond true repair—but as she actually stood beside Anders in her mother’s dress, and the newly ordained priest stood in front of the fire screen, speaking, while the flames blazed away, she realized something.

_This_ is _beautiful. It is sadder than it might have been, yes, but it isn’t shabby. It is a triumph. Each of us thought the other was lost to a horrible fate, but not only did we endure, so did our feelings for each other. I have focused so much on what we lost and what I’m afraid of in the future that I’ve almost forgotten what we didn’t lose, what we actually gained, and what we can shape. Anders and I have a future and we can choose what it is. A year ago—nine months ago—I would have scoffed at the first idea, and I would have scoffed at the second even in Lothering._ She gazed at his face, noticing for the first time today how content and happy he looked.  _He is happy because he is with me. I know I am happy with him—he comforts me and lifts me like no one else can—but I don’t think about that as much as I should. Maybe he’s right... maybe Mother is right... that it’s all right to be happy._

Petrice finished speaking. Caitlyn had not paid too much attention to her words; she knew that the Andrastian rite was actually a pastiche of tribal customs and later pronouncements of women who had never been married in their lives and never would, rather than anything that Andraste claimed the Maker had inspired her to say. But Cait knew how this went. As soon as Petrice finished, she and Anders presented their rings to be blessed, gently slid them on each other’s fingers, and repeated their vows. Anders’ smile had become almost goofy, she noticed, her heart lifting at his now-lopsided grin.

She knew it was coming, and she anticipated it the moment before it happened when his expression turned mischievous, but somehow she was still surprised when he pulled her close, closing the gap between them, and kissed her passionately in front of all their guests and the priest.

It did not actually go on that long, but it was definitely longer than was strictly socially correct. Caitlyn found, as she caressed his face and leaned in, that she did not care.

* * *

The banquet got a bit rowdy, as wedding feasts often did, but fortunately nothing untoward happened—even from Isabela or Gamlen, the two guests Caitlyn was most concerned about. She had also been somewhat uneasy about having Petrice in the same room as Merrill, who bore Dalish vallaslin and still worshiped the Dalish gods. If Petrice quizzed her about that, the young elf would certainly acknowledge it, which Caitlyn did not expect could go well. To that end, she had briefed the priest that Merrill was an exile from her clan who was helping the elves of the city alienage—implying that Merrill had left behind her religion, as the alienage elves were mostly Andrastian. She hated doing it; she never liked concealing the fact that she herself was a mage and would prefer, ideally, to be confrontational about something central to her identity. But she was coming to recognize that certain fights were better avoided.

Carver carried the gifts to the table for the newlyweds to open them. Most of the gifts were paired items—jewelry, chalices, diaries. The staves from the Grey Wardens were named “Heaven’s Wrath” and “Final Reason,” according to the scrolls. It was all too clear which staff was meant for whom; they were runed for electricity and fire respectively.

“Final Reason,” Caitlyn remarked, eyeing her staff with a wry smile on her face. “That’s dark.”

“Darker than the name of mine,” Anders agreed, holding the lightning staff, “but perhaps fitting. It’s the _final reason_ why people should do as you command!”

She shook her head and shot a quick glance at Mother Petrice, who fortunately was occupied in conversation with Leandra and had not heard. Neither, she breathed in relief, had Fenris. “That’s _not_ the example we’re trying to set, love,” she said pointedly.

He laughed and raised his new chalice in a toast to her.

Caitlyn smiled to herself and opened the next gift that was placed in front of her. To her surprise, it was a book, and it was not for her or Anders. _The Story of Ferelden_ lay before her, a friendly mabari stamped in gold on the cover. She opened the cover and realized from the sparse text and frequent woodcut illustrations that this was for Mal.

“That is from Lady Cousland,” Nathaniel Howe spoke up. “She wanted him to have something too. It’s actually written by a Fereldan author, so it’s not biased. Or... well... it’s biased in favor,” he said with a grin.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, amused that Lady Cousland would gift weapons and a history primer at a wedding, but still pleased that such a book for children even existed. “He’s very, very close to reading.” She turned to Mal, who was seated beside her, and handed him the book.

Isabela withheld her gift until the table had cleared and Mal, Leandra, and Petrice were well out of earshot before giving it to the couple. The gift was disappointingly drab, a single jewelry box, but as they set it aside, she said in an undertone that no one else could hear, “It has a false bottom.”

Caitlyn and Anders instantly guessed that this concealed something—and since this was Isabela, it was probably something tawdry. Unobtrusively Anders put the box in his lap and popped open the panel. His eyes widened for a moment, but he kept his face and tilted it toward Caitlyn.

A coil of silken black rope, a gold and a silverite ring, and a set of manacles rested at the bottom of the box.

“Right, then,” Caitlyn said, snapping the false bottom back in place. “I’m going to regret this, but... the rings... are they, erm, actually meant for... they look awfully small for....”

“Ohhhh,” Isabela said, realizing what she was implying. “Oh, no. They’re Tevinter. The silverite one”—she lowered her voice—“makes the wearer highly suggestible by the person wearing the gold one. Supposedly.”

Caitlyn and Anders both drew back, eyes wide, genuinely shocked this time. Caitlyn’s guess that they were cock rings was actually very mild and ordinary compared to what they truly were.

Isabela rose from her chair. “Enjoy,” she purred, giving them a knowing wink.

* * *

As the night grew long, the guests gradually had their fill and took their leave. Eventually the only ones remaining were the family members themselves—and Mal had already fallen fast asleep on the divan next to Anders, his new book in his arms. The dog and cat were also asleep in front of the fire; Baldwin seemed to have accepted Pounce already, much to everyone’s relief. Leandra was torn between fussing over Carver and fussing over the newlyweds, with the result being that no one had to take all of her fussing.

“I suppose nobody bothered with the pretense of staying at the table until we scampered giddily off to the bedchamber,” Caitlyn remarked.

Anders glanced down at the sleeping child. “I wouldn’t mind that now, though.”

“Oh,” Leandra exclaimed, picking Mal up gently and barely waking him. “Of course you want to have your wedding night! I’ll tuck him into bed.”

 _At times like this, Mother isn’t so bad,_ Caitlyn thought a s Leandra headed up the stairs with him.

Carver also rose to his feet and prepared to go to a guest bedroom. “I’d say I’d beat you up if you hurt her, but... a bit late for that, isn’t it?” he said to Anders. As he realized how that sounded, he blanched. “That is—well, damn it. I didn’t mean....”

Caitlyn put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I know what you meant. If this were our first time and he was... unkind. But you would’ve gotten to him after I was already finished. Doesn’t seem sporting.” She grinned at Carver and raised her eyebrows.

“You know,” Anders said, “I _am_ standing right here. And I have no intention of hurting you—unless you want me to,” he couldn’t resist adding.

Carver drew back. “All right, that’s  _quite_ enough for my ears. I’m off to bed.” Without waiting another moment, he stalked toward his bedroom.

Anders offered his arm to Caitlyn, who took it. His expression was mild and loving again, the same one he had worn just before they spoke their vows. They were silent as they ascended the stairs, silent when they entered the room still arm-in-arm, and silent until the door clicked shut behind them.

“I don’t suppose you want to use Isabela’s gifts tonight,” he began to say.

She faced him, caressing his cheek, gazing into his eyes, her heart suddenly fluttering. “Not tonight,” she said, shocked at how breathy her voice sounded. “Tonight... it’s ridiculous, but....”

“Whatever it is, it’s not ridiculous.”

She took a deep breath. “You’re right. Tonight... I want you to carry me to bed. I want you to make tender passionate love to me and—and let me show you how much I love you too. I... think lately I’ve forgotten to do that,” she whispered guiltily.

Anders paused for a moment before bending over, scooping her up in his arms, and balancing her weight. He was strong for a mage, and she was smaller, but lifting an adult person was not nearly so easy as the Orlesian and Antivan spicy-novel writers made it out to be in their prose. “I know you love me,” he said. “It’s all right.”

She reached for his face as he carried her to the bed. “I haven’t shown it as much as I wish I had. I’ve been feeling so dark and bitter and fearful... Maker, if I hadn’t had that realization today, in front of the fire, all my memories of my own wedding day would have been like that.”

He got on the bed and climbed gently on top of her, planting soft kisses on her as he pulled her dress gently down. “You’re doing it right now, love, reliving dark thoughts and chastising yourself for having had them—even for something that didn’t actually happen! Stop. Don’t think of it.”

Caitlyn was startled, and a wry laugh escaped her as he kissed her between her breasts. He lifted his face and gave her a knowing smile. “I guess you’re right,” she said. “So... let’s give each other something else to think about.”

He tossed the delicate gown carefully to the floor, propped himself up, and began to remove his new robes. “Yes,” he said, “let’s.”

In a few moments, they were both nude. Anders pulled the drapes of the bed closed, leaving the dwarven crystal on his nightstand to provide subtle illumination for them, as he descended upon her again.

As much as she liked his attentions, she was determined to give back tonight—and that resolution was easy to keep when he was hovering close, warm and flushed, the light filtering through the canopy and casting a reddish-gold glow on his toned body. She made sure to caress every muscle that flexed as he tended to her, kiss him whenever he raised his head, make him moan by running her fingers through his gold hair, and—after he had brought her right to the edge with his hand—suck and lick his fingers clean. After that, neither of them could wait any longer.

That was the first of three times they made love that night, each successive time a bit harder and rougher than the previous, but neither of them wanted anything tonight other than each other—no “toys” and no roles. There would be other occasions for that.

“You know,” he finally gasped out, collapsing on her at last, their bodies heated and sweaty, “maybe there isn’t Warden stamina after all. You matched me tonight. Maybe it’s just us.”

She laughed and wrapped her arms around him. “Whatever it is, it’s wonderful.”

He smiled and gave her a final kiss for the night, reaching quickly through the drapes to deactivate the rune on the lamp. He knew, of course, that this would not be every night, but as he rolled carefully off her and pulled her into a tight cuddle, he could not help but feel optimistic for their future. He hoped that her dark mood was gone at last and that she felt the same.


	26. He Sang So Loud, Sang So Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks folks!
> 
> I'm sorry if this chapter crosses any lines in terms of depicting unpleasant domestic disputes. As you likely gathered, the adult members of this household have a lot of emotional problems and have not actually resolved or even acknowledged the existence of the most explosive ones, so this is about to ignite.
> 
> Song inspiration is “Bird Song” by Florence + the Machine.

In the next few weeks, Caitlyn found herself looking back fondly: the pleasant mornings waking up with Anders and feeling renewed closeness to him, the relief that—for however long the interlude lasted—they did not have to toil away for coin or for ambition, and even the end of Leandra’s annoying wedding plans. In the back of her mind, however, she knew that the blissful period would not last. Nothing ever did, good or bad. The mortal world might be more permanent than the Fade, but nothing was truly permanent here either. She knew that _something_ would happen to end it.

The trouble started when Leandra continued to seat Anders at the head of the table for dinner and he made no objection to it. It was as though she truly did regard him as the head of household now. _She should be that herself,_ Caitlyn thought after the third time it happened. _She is the legal owner of this property. She is “Lady Hawke,” since the Viscount reinstated the title of nobility too. But if she does not want to act as the head of household, I should be. I basically got us this house. I was always the oldest child, and I’m the only one who now... lives here._

She felt a pang of guilt; Anders had done so much for the family, and his intervention in the Deep Roads had kept it from being even further diminished. The death of Carver would have been a tragedy from which they probably could not have recovered, after losing Malcolm and Bethany already. Anders had prevented that. _But so have I,_ she thought. _Anders would have died in the Deep Roads too if I hadn’t known that healing spell, after the wraith hurt him so badly. He had the ingredients for the Joining potion, and I’m sure I would have attempted to make it when Carver became ill even if it meant scavenging Anders’ body... but I doubt I would have succeeded. I don’t know the correct proportions. Both of them would have died without my spell—and we would not have been in the expedition at all without my work earning most of the coin. So what if Uncle Gamlen stole it? I could have gotten us in if he hadn’t. The fact that Anders played hero, as Carver put it, was something that shouldn’t even have been necessary. Mother should acknowledge me as Anders’ equal, and instead she takes my contributions for granted and defers to whatever man in the family is there._

However, there were some nights when Anders did not take the head seat, because he was still at the clinic. One night in Cloudreach, he emerged from the basement, flustered and distracted. He pushed Mal gently at his mother.

“I want to _stay!”_ Mal said, stamping his foot.

“It’s dinnertime,” Anders said, arranging his coat.

“Then it’s dinnertime for you too,” Mal pointed out as Anders headed back toward the steps leading downward.

“Wait,” Caitlyn said. “Are you going back?”

He halted and sighed, rubbing the top of his head. “I’m really sorry, love,” he said, meaning it, “but it’s been a bad day. A lot of refugees are showing up with flu.”

Caitlyn’s hackles instantly rose—as did her concern. “Flu?” she said sharply. “And you let Mal stay with you all day? I understand that you have to encounter illness, but to expose _him—”_

“I’ve had him behind a magical barrier today,” he said, sounding and looking tired.

“I want to go back!” the boy insisted.

Caitlyn turned to him with a frown. “No, Mal. It is dinnertime for you, and from the sounds of it, you shouldn’t have been there at all. Your father is treating people with a very contagious disease—and I wish he had not let you stay there while they came in, ‘magical barrier’ or not,” she finished, directing the last at Anders with a very hard look.

“He isn’t going to get sick, and neither am I. I ward my own face when I’m treating someone who has it. I’m trying to keep it from becoming a city-wide epidemic,” Anders explained. “You know what could happen if this isn’t controlled, and what Kirkwallers will say if it spreads beyond the refugees and people start dying. This is _important..._ and it’s the right thing to do, as well.”

She was torn. He was right, both about its being the right thing to do and the political importance of preventing a deadly epidemic that would be blamed on Fereldans, and she knew it. This might be Justice speaking, but it was also Anders, and this compassion and righteousness were why she loved him. And yet, at the same time....

“Why does it _always_ have to be you?” Her words were weary and resigned.

He gave her a sad look. “Because no one else with the power to do anything about it cares.”

An idea occurred to her. “I could ask Mother Petrice to send some Chantry brothers and sisters. I’m sure she would like the good publicity—”

“I’m sure she would, but that might do more harm than good,” he said. “They can dispense herbs to relieve symptoms, but only a mage Healer can actually treat the disease or cast glyphs to prevent its spread through the air. And they’re all locked up in the Circle or else afraid that Meredith Stannard will arrest them if they try to help people. _That_ is the problem.” He picked up his staff again, which he had set down, and gave her a heavy, regretful look. “I’ll be in when I can, love.”

She stared miserably as he headed down the basement steps, then led Mal into the dining room.

“Father isn’t coming to dinner,” Mal pouted to his grandmother. “He’s treating sick people.”

“Apparently there is a burgeoning flu outbreak among the Darktown refugees,” Caitlyn explained, “and poor Anders has to be the sole dam holding back the flood.” She was feeling rather peeved about the situation herself, though her anger was currently directed at Meredith Stannard, Viscount Dumar, and Grand Cleric Elthina rather than anyone in her family.

“Oh, no,” the older lady exclaimed. “I hope he’s taking care of himself!”

“He says he is.”

“Still, we must save a plate of food for him for when he comes in. Poor darling.”

Caitlyn agreed—but her feeling of goodwill for her family faded quickly when her mother set a plate down in front of her at her usual seat, leaving the place setting at the head seat empty.

 _This is petty,_ she tried to tell herself, swallowing her sudden surge of irritation. _Anders is doing good work. I shouldn’t focus on something like this._

Anders did not come back to the house at all that night, however. At last Caitlyn gave up, exasperated with him once again—even though she felt guilty about feeling that way. For a brief moment she considered going to the Darktown clinic to check on him, but she put that idea aside. _He knows it’s late. It’s not my duty to drag him away from the sickbed if he won’t take care of his needs himself, and I don’t know how to cast warding glyphs like his. I would be exposing myself to contagion. Let him stay late into the night, if he’s determined to do it._

For the first time since she had moved in with him the day Gamlen had stolen her money—because she had slept by his side in the Deep Roads too—Caitlyn slept alone.

* * *

The bed was still all hers when she woke up the next morning. Her first thought was alarm. What if something had happened to him in the clinic? Even if he took precautions against contracting an illness, he could still be attacked. With that fear in mind, she hurried into a day dress and shuffled downstairs, where her mother was already making breakfast.

“Have you seen Anders? Did he already leave?” she asked Leandra. She didn’t think he had been there and left already, but she needed to be sure.

“I haven’t seen him this morning. You mean he never came in?”

Caitlyn’s eyes widened. “His pillow didn’t look used. I don’t think he ever came in. Maker—I’m going to the clinic at once.”

“I hope he’s all right,” Leandra said, worried.

Caitlyn rushed down the stairs into the basement, lifted the trapdoor, and stepped through the passage into Darktown, near the clinic. It was early, before it officially opened, and no one was waiting outside.

 _What am I going to find in there?_ she thought, her imagination suddenly taking over in a terrible way. _His mangled body? Or—nothing at all? According to Ser Thrask, there are still two powerful rogue Templars here in Kirkwall even after we killed Ser Karras, not counting the Knight-Commander herself. One of them tried to prevent us from taking possession of the house. Someone laid a trap for him before, with poor Karl, knowing that he was a Grey Warden. They might have...._

She tried to clear her mind of these thoughts. Whatever lay inside, she needed to just see it and face it. She pushed the doors—and found, with suddenly spiking alarm, that they were unlocked. Her heart thumping in her chest so loudly that she could hear it, she stepped inside and gazed around quickly, fearing the worst.

Anders was sitting on a stool in a far corner, slumped over a patient bed, his head buried in crossed arms. She hurried over to him to get a closer look. His chest was heaving. He was asleep.

Her terror for him suddenly transformed to anger. _So this is why he didn’t come in? He just decided to sleep here in the clinic, barely a month after our wedding?_ She shook him roughly. “Wake up!” she snapped.

He blinked awake and tried to sit upright, groaning in pain as he did. Apparently sleeping this way had given him a bad backache. She found that she did not particularly care and glared hard at him as he carefully turned around, wincing and casting a quick healing spell at himself to loosen his muscles. “What time is it?” he asked, sounding weak. His stomach let out a rumble of hunger. “Late, I guess... I’m sorry, love. Let’s go. I’m really sorry you had to do this in the middle of—”

“The middle of nothing. It’s _morning,”_ she retorted, her voice extremely hostile.

He blanched. “Oh, Andraste’s blood,” he cursed, getting to his feet. “You’re serious? You’re serious,” he answered himself at once. “I am so sorry.”

“You should be. Mother saved a plate of food for you last night, assuming you would come.”

His stomach rumbled again. He glanced down self-consciously. “Erm, if it is morning... I suppose I should get started... do you still have that food, though? I understand if one of you ate it....”

“You want me to bring you food now?” she said hotly. “After you spend the entire night here and intend to start another day immediately? Are you coming in _tonight,_ Anders?”

“Yes,” he promised. “I swear, love.”

His use of the word suddenly irritated her; it felt like manipulation, even though his expression was sincere and penitent. She breathed deeply in and out through her nose, trying to cool herself. “I’ll hold you to that. And if you break your word, you can just feed yourself.”

“Cait,” he pleaded, “I really am sorry.”

“I thought you might be dead!” she exploded suddenly. “I thought you might have been attacked, or abducted by zealot Templars, or deathly ill! And instead you just decided to take a nap!”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I just... wanted to rest, after the last patient left. And if you thought I was in danger, why didn’t you check on me in the night?”

“Because I was asleep,” she said. “I didn’t worry about you until this morning. You’ve been staying later and later, so I kind of expected that you would eventually not show up until I was already sleeping. I became alarmed when you weren’t in bed _today.”_ She glared at him. “And how dare you try to blame me for this. This is _your_ fault.”

“I’m not blaming you. I know it’s my fault.”

“And didn’t your familiar spirit have a sense of time in the Fade? I know _we_ don’t, but wouldn’t he have some idea of what time it was while you were dreaming?”

“No. He doesn’t. The Fade is the same for a spirit, Caitlyn. Maybe even more so.”

The same tiny flames that flickered uncontrollably on her palms when she was angry began to dance in her hands. She tried again to calm herself. “All right,” she said. “I’ll bring your dinner, or _breakfast,_ or whatever meal it is now, to you. Mal is not coming here today, though.”

He nodded penitently. “I understand.”

She turned aside and headed back to the house.

* * *

Anders did come back to the house for dinner that evening. Caitlyn found that her annoyance at him had barely subsided, and when her mother set his place at the head seat, it was all she could do not to throw fire at someone—which of the two, she was not sure.

 _Calm yourself,_ she urged herself. _He should have had more awareness last night, but he did keep his word today, and he is trying to prevent a deadly epidemic from occurring, knowing that nobody else can help. He is under more stress than any of us, I’m sure—and Mother’s behavior has nothing to do with it. That’s a separate issue._

 _He is happy to accept what she does,_ she thought.

_But he has a lot on his mind. I doubt he thinks about the import of it. I doubt he even notices. There is no smugness in his face. If anything, he’s preoccupied. Mother’s conduct is not his fault._

But as her mother fussed over him at the table, offering effusive praise for his self-sacrificing work as a Healer and complimenting what a kindhearted, compassionate person he was—emphasizing what he did for the Hawkes and not saying a word about Caitlyn herself—Caitlyn found her mood souring in spite of her resolution.

After dinner, they read to Mal, bathed, and went to bed. Anders clearly wanted to make it up to her in an intimate way, and after some initial reluctance to let him touch her at all, she decided that she deserved this. She also decided that he was not going to lead tonight. She did not hold back—and after she shoved him into the pillow, he stared up at her, eyes wide, stunned at her roughness and ferocity, but clearly enjoying it a lot.

They had not yet used the gifts that Isabela had given them, and they both seemed very hesitant to use the rings. It was intriguing, but also a little frightening—not because either of them feared the other would deliberately abuse the gold ring, but because they did not want to inadvertently do anything that they would regret later, once they had taken the rings off. If they ever used those, they would definitely plan every detail of the entire encounter before either of them put on a ring. That was in the future, however, if it ever happened at all—and Caitlyn was in no mood tonight for anything other than taking him as hard and as roughly as she could. It provided the illusion of control, she thought, and that was something she felt that she sorely needed.

“That was amazing,” he gasped once they were finished.

She got off him and lay down beside him, feeling much better. “I do my best,” she said lightly.

He laughed and pulled her close.

* * *

In the coming days, despite Anders’ best intentions, the flu outbreak in Darktown spread, and he kept long hours again, coming in weary and tired each night and welcoming Leandra’s ever-ready stream of fussing when he did arrive at home.

“It’s not an epidemic—yet,” he said as Leandra handed him a hot drink and a blanket. “The number of cases continues to grow, but not as fast as it might. This is still controllable.” He closed his bloodshot eyes, rubbing them tiredly. “I knew this would happen—I knew there would be more cases—and I also know that it’ll decrease soon, but it’s still discouraging to be in the middle of this stage. Even knowing how these things happen, there is a point where you just wonder... is this going to stop? Am I going to succeed at curbing the outbreak?”

“You will. You’re doing so much for the poor,” Leandra said tenderly. “You’re doing more than anyone. Try to stay positive.”

Caitlyn felt a pang at the fact that her mother had encouraged him before she had. “Yes,” she agreed, “you’re going to get it under control. I know you can.”

“Yes. You’re a hero,” Mal chimed in innocently.

Anders managed a weak smile.

* * *

Caitlyn had spent her free hours in the daytime in the family library, as they had discussed, but nothing she had yet read had inspired her. _Those Tevinter books are still there,_ she thought unbidden—but she did not want to touch them. Once a mage went down that path, it was difficult to come back from it, so her father had always taught her and Bethany.

When Fenris, Merrill, and Aveline visited her the following day, talking about an alleged slaver operation on the Sundermount that they would like to root out, she almost did not want to go. It would surely only cause problems in the household if she hared off on dangerous adventures again.

 _These are my friends,_ she instantly chastised herself. _Fenris once was a slave, and if these slavers are on the Sundermount, they could be threatening the Dalish. I should go. I have asked them to help me defend mages before._

Leandra was not happy about it, however. “It’s always you!” she exclaimed, right in front of the group. “Why must you try to fix everything that is wrong in the world?” Behind Caitlyn, all three of her friends shifted and scowled.

 _That sounds like what I told him,_ she thought—and her mother realized it too. “You and Anders are exactly alike and someday I’m just afraid that it’s going to....” She broke off and took a deep breath. “All right. I will take care of Mal. I hope Anders comes home at a reasonable time, in case this is a protracted pursuit.”

Caitlyn and her three friends headed off to the countryside. The party was an awkward mix. Fenris was only mildly friendly to Caitlyn and was not friendly to Merrill at all, and Aveline disapproved of Fenris’s “squatting” in his former master’s Hightown mansion. After some brief conversation with Fenris—which tapered off once she began to complain about the flu outbreak in Darktown, Anders’ long hours, and, especially, the lack of mage Healers to help him—no one had much to say. Varric and sometimes Isabela could make awkward social situations more comfortable, but they were not here.

Caitlyn also reflected darkly on the fact that she had taken up an opportunity to inflict yet more violence. That a slaver gang deserved it was beside the point. _Maybe this really is all that I’m good at doing,_ she thought darkly. _Maybe I’m not cut out for anything but killing._ This dark thought sustained her until they came upon the first group of slavers—who recognized Fenris immediately.

After this group was defeated, Fenris turned to Caitlyn. “Hadriana,” he seethed, almost to himself. “I was a fool to think I was free. They’ll never let me be!”

Hadriana, it turned out, was the apprentice of Danarius, Fenris’s former master. Caitlyn was not sure that they should pursue a probable Tevinter blood mage without a large team for reinforcement, but Fenris was adamant about doing it as quickly as possible.

“I can match her,” Merrill suddenly said, her tone darker than Caitlyn had ever heard before. Greenish magic swirled around her as she spoke.

Fenris glowered, Aveline glanced askance at the Dalish elf, and Caitlyn raised her eyebrows. “Let’s not do that immediately,” she urged. “But... as a last resort... better to be saved by blood magic than for all of us to die by it!”

Fenris and Aveline sighed, but Merrill gave Caitlyn a smile. “I agree,” she said lightly, her tone innocent again. “But I’ll use Keeper magic first, as you wish.”

They followed the trail to an ancient structure, which Caitlyn supposed must have been erected in the days of the old Imperium when Kirkwall was called Emerius and was the biggest slave-trade port in south Thedas. Fenris became more and more dour as they advanced through the... temple, or whatever it was, striking down undead and shades that had been raised by dark magic. When at last they reached a room with living people in it, it became all too apparent that there was someone among them that the slavers could use as a hostage or living shield: an elven slave.

It was a difficult fight, because they did not want to harm her, but at last these slavers lay dead, and the elven woman was shaking in fear. She had never known anything but slavery in Tevinter and had no knowledge of Dalish or southern alienage culture.

 _She won’t fit in anywhere,_ Caitlyn suddenly realized. It was tough for Fenris, who had also been a Tevinter slave and had no connection to either form of elven culture, but he was a great warrior and had a purpose in life: vengeance on Danarius and discovering what freedom meant to him. This elf, whose name was Orana, was a defenseless house servant and was thus even worse off.

“You could work for my family if you like,” Caitlyn offered, the words tripping off her tongue before she realized it. When her friends all stared at her in shock, she added at once, “For pay. And you could quit whenever you wanted and work for someone else, because we don’t believe in slavery here. You also don’t _have_ to do this.”

She did want to do it, however, and was thrilled by the novelty of being paid for her work. Caitlyn hoped that she had made the right decision. Her mother could certainly use some help and companionship around the house and with Mal.

When they finally came upon Hadriana, who had become a magister in her own right and immediately started to use blood magic to raise shades, another fight ensued quickly. Fortunately Merrill was able to make short work of the summonings and Caitlyn sent volley after volley of fire at the magister, finding a sort of release in unleashing an inferno on someone who thoroughly deserved it. It was not a solution for the problems at home, Caitlyn knew, but it made her feel better for now. At last Hadriana was drained and burned, tumbling to the ground and begging for her life. Caitlyn was not inclined to oblige her—and Fenris certainly wasn’t, even after the magister tried to buy her life with information about a supposed sister in Tevinter that Fenris still had. After she had nothing more to say, he thrust his hand into her chest and crushed her heart.

Merrill and Aveline had judiciously turned aside for this, and they had no inclination to do anything except leave as quickly as possible. Caitlyn, however, thought it a good idea to at least ask him what he thought about the possibility of having family.

He scoffed. “This could be a trap! Danarius could have sent Hadriana here to tell me about this ‘sister.’”

Unfortunately, Caitlyn could easily see his point. Elves in Tevinter were treated appallingly, and it was almost inconceivable that slave-holding magisters would acknowledge a blood relationship between two elves at all. Elves were property in Tevinter, and property didn’t have families. _Unless she meant “half-sister” and this woman is an elf-blooded human,_ Caitlyn thought—but given the likelihood that Fenris’s mother had been a slave too, that idea opened up an extremely ugly probability of just why a male magister would acknowledge Fenris’s “sister.” Caitlyn found herself hoping that he was right and that there was no sister at all, just a trap.

Fenris continued, still raging. “Even if he didn’t, trying to find her would still be suicide! Danarius has to know about her and has to know that Hadriana knows.” He glowered into the distance. “Bah. I don’t care. All that really matters is that I finally got to crush this bitch’s heart. May she rot and all the other mages with her.”

 _That_ got Caitlyn’s attention—and Merrill’s too. _“Excuse me?”_ Caitlyn exploded, whirling around to face him. _“Mages_ just saved your hide! If you hadn’t killed that woman, I would have!”

He drew back as if she had struck him. For a moment, his visage hardened even further with anger, but then he wavered. “Hawke—it’s not—I just don’t think of you as a mage. I didn’t mean....”

“Oh, we both know you did mean it,” Merrill said, her fey voice angry and disappointed.

“I _am_ a mage,” Caitlyn snarled. “Instead of trying to forget that little inconvenient truth, it wouldn’t hurt you to _try_ to distinguish between mages like me—like us—and like _her!”_ She gestured at Hadriana’s dead body, then turned to Merrill. “And you didn’t say a word excepting Merrill, I noticed. Or Anders, or my dead father and sister, or maybe my son. Come on, Merrill, let’s go. I’ve had enough.” Defiantly she linked her arm with Merrill’s, then turned to the elven maid Orana, who had stayed in the background. “You should come too, unless you have changed your mind. Which is your right to do,” she added at once.

Orana shook her head. “No, my lady, I have not changed my mind.”

“You should apologize for that,” Aveline said in an undertone to Fenris as the group split up, but Caitlyn and Merrill stormed away nevertheless.

* * *

_Everyone takes me for granted,_ Caitlyn fumed all the way back to the city. _Even friends and family... or maybe especially them. They take me for granted and show no appreciation at best—or blame and hostility at worst. That’s the last time I help that ingrate with his problems! Let him hunt every slaver in creation—by himself. I am done. Unless slavers directly attack me, I’m not fighting them again if this is the thanks I get for it, being grouped with them because of something I was born with! I’m done helping other people... except Mal. He is my responsibility. But no one else! No one else gives a damn about what I do anyway. Why should I bother? Better to take care of myself, my child, and pursue a cause on behalf of people I don’t know and who don’t know me. Maybe it’s just fine if I lose everyone else in that, because people who “care” for me only take advantage of me._

She glanced at the Dalish elf walking beside her and felt guilty. _She hasn’t taken advantage of me. She is a true friend. I shouldn’t include her in that thought._ When Merrill departed for her house in the alienage, Caitlyn gave her a hug and pointedly urged her to visit whenever she wanted to, then headed with Orana to her own home.

Her mother was dismayed when Caitlyn showed up at the door with the elven servant. “I know you meant well, dear, but... shouldn’t we get Anders’ approval for this?”

Caitlyn drew her breath sharply. “We don’t need his approval,” she snarled. _“You_ own this house. Her wages will come from _our_ money.”

Leandra raised her eyebrows, surprised at her daughter’s degree of vehemence. “He is a member of the family,” she offered. “He should have input....”

“You didn’t say input; you said _approval._ As if we need his _permission._ And again, it is our wealth and our family house, Mother.” She turned to Orana. “I’m sorry about that. _I_ have hired you, if nothing else—and don’t read too much into my mother’s words. I don’t know what things are like in Tevinter, but women have the right to hire personal servants in the Free Marches.” She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. “Come. Let me introduce you to my four-year-old boy.”

* * *

Orana knew how to play the lute, and she had an excellent ear for music. She was able to pick out traditional tunes from Bethany’s old songbooks almost immediately.

As the elf began to play the ballads with Mal singing along, Caitlyn felt a kind of melancholy at the memories. She wished that she could bring herself to sing, but she just couldn’t yet. She was smiling in spite of her sad feelings, though; this domestic scene was a relief after today.

Leandra stuck her head through the door. “Cait, dear, Fenris is waiting outside to talk to you.”

Her good feeling suddenly dissipated. “I do not want to see him, Mother.”

“But... he says he is sorry... for what, he didn’t say, but....”

“I know what he means. I don’t want to talk to him about it yet. I’m still too angry. Tell him I’ll visit _him_ when I’m ready to discuss it. He doesn’t get to dictate terms, not after what he said.”

Leandra gave her a pained glance but disappeared to take the message. Caitlyn scowled to herself as Orana and Mal continued to sing. At least Fenris _was_ sorry... as well he should be... but she had had enough demands from people lately. More than enough. He could bloody well wait for _her_ to acknowledge his apology—and think hard about his words while he waited.

* * *

Anders trudged in late, after Caitlyn had put Mal to bed and Orana had been settled into a room that she deemed “small enough” for herself. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders were slumped, and he looked more devastated than Caitlyn had seen in a long time as he collapsed in his chair in the sitting room.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him, handing him a nightcap.

He set the drink down on the side table and gazed at her bleakly. “I lost a patient. And not to the Blight sickness this time—to the flu.”

Caitlyn sat down near him. “This is the first time this has ever happened?”

He looked at her in surprise that this was her reaction. “Yes,” he said edgily. “It’s the first time I’ve ever failed to save someone whom it was possible to save.”

“Young, old, in-between?”

He gaped at her. “Does it matter?” he burst out.

“Well... no... but if I were a Healer, I think I’d feel worse about losing a child, so in that sense, it matters.”

Anders closed his eyes and covered his face, staying silent for a moment. Finally he spoke. “It was an elderly woman. She waited a long time to see me. Too long,” he croaked. “The illness was too advanced. And I had just healed someone else who had it. Cait... I used up my lyrium supply from the Grey Wardens today. That was why she died.”

She was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“The Warden-Commander didn’t anticipate anything like this,” he whispered. “She has sent me enough lyrium for a few injured patients a day and people suffering from exposure and exhaustion, not to curb an outbreak of disease. She has a lot of former apostates in the Wardens now, too, and isn’t in great odor with the Circle in Ferelden because of that, so I don’t know how much longer she can....”

“Is there anything I might do to help with the epidemic?” Caitlyn finally asked. “I know only the one spell, but....”

He shook his head. “I appreciate that, darling, but it won’t work. That spell is meant to repair damage to flesh. It works against diseases that are caused by such damage, but diseases like this are caused by something else. I have to rally the body’s own defenses and target the infection itself for this kind of illness.”

She considered. “Varric might know how to get more lyrium for you. Or... well, I did work for a smuggling ring a year ago.”

He considered this briefly before shaking his head again. “I’ll just have to let Justice renew me after each patient until the next shipment arrives. That’s all there is to it. It is not the duty of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden to prevent an epidemic in Kirkwall.”

“But you and Justice believe that duty is yours.”

He rose to his feet and walked to the closest window, staring out, not looking at her. “Yes. We believe that those who _can_ take action _should._ You and I disagree about this,” he finally said. “I don’t want to fight, love.”

That assertion about herself only raised her hackles, even though she had been thinking something very similar to that on the way back from the slavers’ lair. “You’re wrong. I don’t disagree about the principle at all,” she argued. “Just....”

“Just this example of putting it into practice?” he said bitterly. “Cait, this is no different from the two of us wanting to change life for mages if we can. I have to do this, and you have to let me.”

She drew back, offended and hurt. “I’m not trying to stop you. I just... wish you wouldn’t take so much on yourself. You say that no one can help you, no one can risk being exposed as an apostate, there’s no point in asking Lady Cousland for more lyrium, no one can smuggle you any on the black market, and I apparently couldn’t learn other spells that target infections. I’m starting to think you’re _choosing_ to isolate yourself so that you can be a hero—or a martyr,” she said darkly. “Perhaps not a literal one... but I do wonder now if there’s a part of you that _wants_ the outbreak to become a pandemic in order to prove what happens when Healers are locked up or scared into the shadows.”

Anders drew up sharply. His eyebrows narrowed in anger, and the telltale light of the spirit blazed from his eyes. “No true Healer would ever want people to become ill and suffer,” he said, his voice not quite Justice’s but not his own either.

Caitlyn drew back, suddenly frightened—and angry. “Control yourself,” she snapped.

“You accuse me—”

“I said ‘I _wonder,’”_ she said. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

He softened. “Then you are wrong.”

“Good. I hope I’m wrong,” she said. “But I would like to know why you are determined against everything I suggest to try to help, if that’s not the reason.”

He softened further, and the spirit-light receded. When he spoke again, his voice was his own. “Ask Varric about lyrium, then. Something might come of that. But as for the rest... Maker, I wish there _was_ more that could be done! I wish the Warden-Commander could send me more lyrium, but she doesn’t control the source, and she has a lot of mage Wardens to provide for too. I wish I could recruit apostates from the Mage Underground to help me—but I can’t ask that of anyone! They’re trying to escape Kirkwall, mostly. I couldn’t ask them to postpone their plans, to endanger themselves. I certainly couldn’t ask _you_ to learn all about healing. It’s years’ worth of study, not something that you could learn in time to help me with this. I wish you could, but no one can learn the discipline that fast. Trust me, I know.”

Caitlyn sighed. “I’ll talk to Varric, then. I wish I could do more.”

“I know.” He gave her a quick hug, then released her. “Go on to bed, love. I’ll join you later, after I eat and wash.”

* * *

Caitlyn was wandering in the Fade that night, pursued by a horde of people begging her for favors and offering promissory notes with indefinite dates as “payment” for her assistance, when she felt herself being pulled out of the dreamworld and back into the physical realm. As she came to, she realized that Anders was thrashing beside her. The spirit-light of Justice was crackling down his body and illuminating the orbs of his eyes, glowing brightly through the thin skin of his eyelids.

Her dream had not been pleasant, but at least she had been sleeping—until now. Seeing him like this, disturbing her rest, with Justice apparently taking him over in the Fade but not trying to reshape it to control whatever nightmare he was trapped in, suddenly incensed her. _What good is having a familiar spirit if it’s just a parasite and doesn’t do anything to stop this?_ she thought furiously.

She was not in the mood to be gentle. Casting frost on the palms of her hands, she slapped him hard across the face.

He awoke with a start and a shout, gulping for air like a fish stranded onshore. “Maker’s breath!” he exclaimed, clutching his cheeks. He gazed at her. The white frost on her palms was fading, but her facial expression was one of fury. “Oh, no,” he said. “I was thrashing about, wasn’t I? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry if I did—I didn’t know it—”

“You woke me up,” she said icily, not answering his question, deciding to let him wonder. “What in the Void is Justice’s problem? He was in charge, from the way it looked. Can’t he exert any control over your nightmares at all?”

Anders propped himself up and sighed deeply. “It’s not as simple as that,” he said. “He’s not a distinct entity anymore. We... bleed together. And the nightmare... Maker, it was awful.” He gazed miserably at her. “I expected one, I admit, but I thought it would be about the outbreak. And it was... but....” He hung his head and covered his eyes. “It was a medley of the worst nightmares I’ve had. The outbreak killed all of our friends... the Templars took Mal away when he was trying to save people... your mother turned up dead and dismembered... and then when I noticed that you were nowhere to be found, I remembered—in the Fade—that you had been left in the Deep Roads—”

“Anders,” Caitlyn warned him, pretty sure that she knew what his dream about her had been, and not wanting to hear it. In fact, she had not wanted to hear any of these horrors. Why was he inflicting _his_ nightmare on her?

“So your brother and I went back to that thaig with all the red lyrium in it to find you,” he whispered, “and there you were—as that _beast_ I told you about once, the broodmother—”

Something inside her snapped. Perhaps it was the stress of the past several days, with the flu outbreak taking him away from her so much, her mother’s exasperating behavior and disregard of Caitlyn herself, Fenris’s viciously ungrateful comment, and the mounting feeling that none of this was ever going to get better, but she had suddenly had enough. “Shut up,” she snapped at him.

He drew back from her, shocked. “What?” he said.

“You heard me. Do you imagine I want to hear this? Get back to sleep, and if you interrupt my rest again, I’ll send you into dreamless sleep if I have to, so help me. I have had it.”

Anders stared at her as the shocked expression on his face changed into an angry one. “What do you mean, you’ve had it? Had it with _what?_ My long hours, trying to prevent this disease from becoming a pandemic? Do you think I want this to happen? Oh, wait—as you said earlier, you _do.”_

This was unlike him. He was normally patient, pacifist, and considerate of her when she was angry, not like this. Having her own words thrown back at her was like at last mixing the volatile chemicals that had been separated—barely—for days. A blazing rage suffused her as she threw the covers back. “You have no idea!” she shouted, completely unconcerned about waking up the rest of the household. “You think it’s all about yourself— _your_ healing, _your_ bad dreams.”

“Oh, _I_ am selfish!” he retorted. “That’s rich!” He glared at her. “I have always— _always!—_ listened to _you_ when you have nightmares. Is it so much to ask you to show me a little consideration when I have one? You’re not the only person who has suffered, you know.”

Caitlyn could hardly believe her ears. She would have assumed that this was Justice speaking but for the fact that no sign of the spirit was present—no bluish-white light, no change in the timbre of his voice. This was all Anders, as hard as that was for her to believe. “I never said I was, but you have some nerve expecting me to listen to you narrate your awful dreams and what happens to me in them!”

“I’ve listened to you,” he said again, glowering. “I’ve listened to you tell me about yours. I listened to you before our wedding when you made that awful comment about marrying for politics—and then became sad and weepy about it, telling me about _your_ problems! I have given and given, and it seems that most of what you do is _take.”_

That assertion was like a poisoned blade to her, after her own thoughts about feeling taken for granted and not being appreciated. Caitlyn stormed from the bed, getting to her feet and glaring back at him as if she wanted to pounce. “You ‘gave’ because you _owed_ us,” she said menacingly, aware that she was saying this to hurt him, aware in the back of her mind that she was deliberately breaking her promise about cruelty, but not caring. “After what happened to this family because you knew us—as you said yourself, or used to, about people having bad things happen to them because they knew you—you _owed_ us.”

Anders got out of bed too and stared fiercely at her from the other side. “If I did, I have paid that debt with interest. _My_ maps got you through the Deep Roads and therefore got you this house,” he said. “My Warden potion saved your brother’s life.”

“I saved _your_ life first.”

“I taught you the spell to do it.”

“I still cast it. I braved that wraith’s attack to drag your arse back and heal you. I did it, and how dare you try to take credit to yourself and diminish what I do! You’re just like all the others around here, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” he exclaimed, some of the anger suddenly melting away as it dawned on him that her outrage might not actually be about him. What was it about, though? What was she so angry about? Anders realized, with a pang, that he had been out of the house and in the clinic so much lately that he really didn’t know.

“You don’t see it, do you? You genuinely don’t see it. Typical.” Scorn filled her words.

She did not seem inclined to tell him, and with that, the anger surged up in him once again. He was not going to stand there and be her scapegoat for some unknown thing that he had not done deliberately—if at all—but which she would not even tell him. “I don’t know who you’re really angry with, but I will not let you take it out on me this time. You want everyone to think you’re so tough and hard, just like the character in Varric’s serial. The vigilante who takes no prisoners, the Fereldan who stands up for herself, the mage who isn’t ashamed of it, who makes pragmatic deals with ruthless priests to depose the Grand Cleric. The future Viscountess, maybe! But behind closed doors, you use _me_ for emotional support—and you know, that’s fine; it’s our job to do that for each other. _For each other,”_ he repeated, emphasizing the words. “You suffered. I realize that. You’re trying to make things better here and it’s hard for you sometimes. But you know, Caitlyn, I suffered too—and I’m also under a lot of stress trying to stop an epidemic that nobody in power gives a damn about. It wouldn’t hurt to consider that occasionally instead of using me as your dueling practice dummy.”

She breathed deeply, seething at his words. They cut her deeply, though she would not dare admit it. She _did_ act as tough and aggressive as she could when dealing with most people in Kirkwall, because that seemed to be what they respected, and underneath it she did wonder just how strong she truly was. That, perhaps, was why she couldn’t stand to hear it from him.

“Get out,” she said, her tone cold and corrosive.

“What?”

“Get out,” she repeated. “Go spend the night in your clinic again, where your precious patients will be waiting for you tomorrow. I slept better the night you did, anyway.”

Anders stared at her in shock, then stormed toward the heavy door and opened it with an angry yank. He stamped down the stairs, then down the basement stairs, as Leandra and Mal pattered into the upstairs hall. The doorway to Orana’s bedroom also cracked open, but it was clear that she did not want to involve herself in this ugly domestic brawl.

The heavy basement doors clanged shut behind Anders as he vanished into the crypt. Leandra turned to Caitlyn, her expression sorrowful and deeply disapproving.

“Do not say it, Mother,” she warned.

Mal’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Why are you so angry at Father?” he whispered, trying not to cry.

She reached for him, but he turned away. That hurt her almost more than anything. “We... had a fight, Mal,” she said, though that was perfectly obvious. “People argue sometimes. We had a... disagreement. That’s all.”

“He left the house,” Mal said, still whispering. “Will he come back?”

“He’ll come back when he is ready. In the meantime, we should all go back to bed.”

Leandra drew in her breath sharply at her daughter’s tone, and as Caitlyn tried to get her son back to sleep, she knew that this was not finished yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they are actually going to talk everything out in the next chapter—really. I can’t promise that there won’t be disagreements in the future/sequel about political tactics, but they really are going to have a family talk about this stuff.
> 
> I also think that all three of them share some blame for this situation. I agree with every word Anders said to Cait in the "you think you're so tough and hard" comment and a lot of what he says elsewhere. But he has been avoiding the household (even if he has a legitimate reason) and should’ve been better aware of the mother-daughter conflict brewing so that he would not act in a way that felt to her like teaming up with Leandra. And Leandra takes Hawke for granted to a really appalling, emotionally abusive degree—which is game canon (she implied more than once that she could accept Hawke’s death but not their sibling’s)—and that is what’s actually going on here rather than exclusively cultural sexism. She sees his contributions to help the family but not Cait’s, because she takes her for granted.


	27. A Kiss To Change Us All?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again!
> 
> The story got expanded by one more chapter because I didn’t want the flu epidemic to be a throwaway arc after all. It was going to be something I only used for this arc of domestic conflict, but then I realized the potential it holds to showcase anti-mage, anti-Fereldan zealotry in Kirkwall. That will show up more in Chapter 28, though.
> 
> Song is “Still a Stranger” by AFI.

Caitlyn had put Mal back to bed, attempting to reassure him that his father would return soon and everything would be all right. Finally she had gone into the room herself and read to him a chapter out of his Black Fox storybook. He fell asleep again before she was able to finish, but that was the outcome she had hoped for. Closing the book, she got up from his bed and left his bedroom, closing the door quietly.

_ I suppose I should go back to sleep myself,  _ she thought, feeling empty. Now that the immediate blaze of anger had cooled, she felt a bit bad about exploding at Anders and kicking him out of the house. He had angered her with the detailed description of his nightmare, but that didn’t merit her reaction, and she knew that she would not have lashed out in such a way if she had not already been about to explode with anger from slights by other people. More than anything else, she had ordered him out because of his words—words that rang far too true for comfort.

_“I am selfish! That’s rich!”_

_“I have given and given, and it seems that most of what you do is take.”_

_“You want everyone to think you’re so tough and hard. But behind closed doors, you use me for emotional support.”_

_“I suffered too. It wouldn’t hurt to consider that occasionally instead of using me as your dueling practice dummy.”_

The words cut her so sharply because she feared them to be true. And how could her conviction that she was being taken for granted and not appreciated be true if these words were also true?

Caitlyn could not rest. She trudged downstairs and collapsed in a chair, closing her eyes and covering her face with her hands. She realized, suddenly, that she had done what she had sworn not to do again, and deliberately tried to hurt him with her words once more. He had said he couldn’t tolerate it again, that night, before Karl’s pyre....

_Selfish. Taker. You use me. Use me. Use—_

“Caitlyn, you can’t treat him this way. You love each other, but this kind of behavior kills love over time. Love is _never_ truly unconditional; we all have a limit. You know that, don’t you?”

She glanced up sharply. Her mother had joined her in the sitting room silently, and was now seated across from her, in her nightgown. Leandra was scowling in disapproval, and at that sight, Caitlyn’s growing remorse suddenly vanished. Her mother was perhaps the root cause of all of this.  _ She  _ was the one who had shown favoritism to Carver, and showed favoritism to Anders now that he was here. She was the one who had deferred to her drunken lout of a brother on almost every occasion. She was the one who didn’t see anything that Caitlyn did for the family and never had. Anger flared in Caitlyn once again at her mother’s admonition.

She slammed her palms on her thighs and looked up sharply. “I will say this once, Mother. I never dared meddle with your and Father’s marriage. You stay out of mine.”

“Caitlyn—”

“Mother, I am not interested in any advice that you might have to give me on this subject,” she said acidly. “I know what it would be: Be a follower, a supporter, and let him make all the decisions, sit in the high seat, be ‘head of the family.’”

Leandra drew back, confused. “The... seat? That’s what you are upset about?”

“That is only a small part of it,” she snarled, fixing her mother with a glare. She had not intended to have it out with her in the middle of the night, but perhaps it was for the best after all. “There is a lot more than that, Mother—but since you do acknowledge that, I’ll ask you: Why do you do it? Why do you always place _him_ in your father’s seat, the seat of the head of the Amell family when you were growing up? Is that truly how you see him?”

“I—it’s not exactly that—Caitlyn, he has done so much! He made up the deficit on your investment for the Deep Roads, he got you through with his maps and his Warden expertise, he kept you and Mal during that period when Gamlen was being impossible, and he saved Carver’s life! He saved our family. He is the reason we have this house.”

Caitlyn gazed at Leandra in amazement and fury. “He saved our family,” she repeated in disbelief. “You know, until you said that, nothing you had said was false. He  _ did  _ do all the specific things you said. But  _ saved our family?  _ The reason— _the _ reason, the one reason—that we have the house?” Her voice was growing louder, and she tried to calm herself so that she did not wake Mal again. “Mother—don’t you see what you  _ do?” _

Leandra was confused, and it was evident from her face. “What I do? What do you mean?”

Caitlyn gaped. “You don’t see,” she said. “He didn’t see either... but he wasn’t the one doing it. You are.”

“Caitlyn, what do you mean?”

She gave her mother a look of derision and shook her head, but apparently, her mother really was this oblivious. So be it, then. Caitlyn steeled herself for the second round of ugly fighting that she was sure was coming. It seemed that sleep was not on the agenda tonight. “Mother, you don’t appreciate a thing I do. Apparently you don’t even  _ notice.” _

“Caitlyn! How can you think that?”

“Easily,” she said harshly. “It has been like this for years.” She considered, quickly, some of the most egregious instances. “You babied Carver _and_ me, of course, but _he_ was the one you couldn’t bear to think of losing in the Deep Roads. I’m not saying you wouldn’t have cared about me, but he was the one you thought of first—just like, when Bethany was killed, I was the one you blamed first when the Blight and Flemeth share a lot more blame, and we’ve all made decisions that we question and regret.”

“I didn’t mean....”

“Anders chipped in twenty-four gold for the expedition, fourteen of which Carver and I—mostly I, if I have to say so—had already earned, and _your brother_ stole from us. Do you know how I earned that coin, Mother?”

“My dear....”

“I fought off violent criminal gangs on the streets and docks of this city,” she said through clenched teeth. “Gangs that the City Guard couldn’t seem to get rid of. Aveline and I uncovered some corruption in the Guard, you know, but that can’t be all of it, so gangs roam free, raid ships, capture Fereldans for slavery, and squat in noble estates. That’s who I killed—brutal beastly men who would have raped my bleeding body and then gutted me and thrown my corpse into an alley, had I allowed them to win.”

“Caitlyn!” Her mother was shocked at her violent words, but Caitlyn continued relentlessly.

“And all along, I knew I couldn’t leave any survivors, because they would run whining to the Templars about me and evade legal justice for turning in a ‘dangerous apostate’! That’s what happens in this corrupt place,” she seethed. “Meredith Stannard’s thugs will grant extralegal reprieves to thieves and gang members if they hand over mages, contravening the Viscount’s Law.”

“Caitlyn,” Leandra pleaded, “I knew that Templars were a risk... but is it really _that bad?”_

“Yes,” she said shortly. “One day, a Fereldan widower came to Anders’ clinic. His nine-year-old daughter was bleeding to death before our eyes, knifed in the back by a Templar that Anders and I had already been warned about—by another Templar, a decent one, of all people. She was a mage who had merely defended herself and her father against criminals—thieves who had avoided jail for reporting _her,_ and probably had been paid a bounty out of Chantry funds to boot, funds that should have gone to the poor. Yes, Mother, it’s _that bad.”_ She took breaths to calm herself.

“I didn’t know,” Leandra whispered.

Caitlyn continued mercilessly. “I took partial ownership in a mine, which continues to pay us an income, by slaying dragons and other dangerous creatures. In addition to the assorted gangs and evil people, I have killed demons, malevolent dwarven spirits, possessed corpses, giant spiders, and, oh yes, darkspawn. Carver was along much of the time, but I chipped in _everything I earned_ to that coin box after I paid for Mal’s expenses. _That_ is how I got the money that your brother stole from us, Mother. I endangered my life on every single occasion—risking leaving my son orphaned before we met Anders again, all for the sake of _saving this family_ and _getting this house!_ And you don’t see it! You don’t see anything I do!”

Leandra’s face was a study of horror and remorse. “Caitlyn, my dear girl, I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t realize....” She trailed off, gazing in shock at her daughter and her furious words.

“I went with you to the Viscount’s office that day to get that awful Templar and then the Viscount himself to agree to the sale, and I talked him into it,” she continued, her voice starting to break. “The entire reason Anders and I could officially marry at all was because I made an ally of a priest who... doesn’t like some things that go on in this city. I’ve saved a companion from slavery... though he doesn’t appreciate it,” she muttered darkly, “and helped another one become a leader in the alienage by encouraging her. I was the one that Varric recruited for the Deep Roads in the first place. I... I don’t mean to diminish Carver’s part, or Anders’, and all that you said he did is true... but I’ve done a lot too, Mother, and you just don’t see it. You’ve never seen it.” Her voice wavered a bit. “I take that back a little. You did see that what I did, what we did, to earn coin was dangerous, because you didn’t want us to do it. But you didn’t seem to understand or accept that I wasn’t doing it for fun or even for personal pocket money. And trying to keep us from doing it because it’s dangerous, without a viable alternative for making money, isn’t the same thing as appreciating and giving credit.”

Leandra rose from her chair and walked toward her daughter, but Caitlyn held up her hand, shaking her head. “And all this time, I have had a small child to raise. I’ve had help from you, of course, but he is mine, and until I met Anders again....” At that, her voice did break. A tear trickled unbidden down her cheek, to her shame and embarrassment.

Leandra wanted to hug Caitlyn, but she could tell that her daughter did not want that right now. Instead she stood to the side of Caitlyn’s chair, taking in what she had heard.

“So when you ignore all of that, or just don’t see it, and say that he is _the reason_ we have the house, that he’s the savior of the family, and that’s why he deserves to... to sit where the head always sat, that’s why he must always be consulted before I hire a nanny or you even move your own furniture around... it hurts, Mother. It makes me angry, and then... things just burst out.”

“I truly have not thought about it,” Leandra said, astounded, guilt flooding her face as she fully comprehended Caitlyn. “I... suppose you are right that I have taken you for granted, and I am so, so sorry. You are right. I do value what you do—please don’t think it doesn’t matter to me—but you are right that I just... didn’t see it as anything but, I suppose, the natural order of things, and I took it for granted. I will try to do better.”

Caitlyn sighed heavily. Her mother did seem to be sincere, but that alone was no guarantee that it wouldn’t happen again. “Hopefully, my days of doing vigilante work that the City Guard should be doing are over,” she said, “but Mother, the other things... it seems to me that you have wanted for all your adult life to have some man to answer to. Father, then Uncle Gamlen, then Anders. And you can do as you please for yourself, but for _me..._ well, it’s creating problems for us. I don’t like it, but I don’t think Anders really notices because he is so busy, so he doesn’t push back.” As she spoke, she realized that there was a gap of three years between Father’s death and their arrival in Uncle Gamlen’s Lowtown house, and she could not say that her mother treated Carver as the head of the family in that time. In fact, there had not really been anyone who was the undisputed leader of the family. “I understand that you were raised differently, here in Kirkwall as a noble, but I... don’t like it.”

“It was not about that, my dear,” Leandra said, her face still drawn with emotional pain. “Most Kirkwall nobles do practice male primogeniture, but it is no more required by city law than it is in Ferelden. My parents left everything to me. Of course a woman can be the head of household. I just... see now that you are right that I took you for granted and never considered you such because I did....”

“But you are my mother. You are the owner of the house and the... the surviving parent. Coming to Kirkwall was your idea. Why not be the head of household yourself?”

Leandra sighed unhappily. “You are right that it is because of circumstances in my life. I just never acted as such, ever. After your dear father died, we all had to manage the household together and support each other, as it were. There was no head of household, really—unless I am taking you for granted again, and if so, I apologize again.”

“No,” Caitlyn said. “For those last three years in Lothering... none of us ‘led.’”

Her mother nodded. “You were pregnant, and then busy raising Mal.... We were all just trying to make it. And before that....” She sighed again. “Yes, your father was clearly the head of the family, but he and I agreed on a division of labor when we settled in Ferelden. I was uncomfortable making decisions for the household because I knew little of the world beyond noble parlors and ladylike accomplishments.”

“He was a mage of the Circle,” Caitlyn replied. “If anything, he would’ve known _less.”_

“But he was much... bolder, and more assertive, and more courageous, and by the time we were married, he had learned a lot about the world by experience. He had friends in the Grey Wardens, the Templars, and the Chantry to help him. I had no one I could confide in, not even my own brother, as I learned. Caitlyn... I do not mean to compare the brief time I am talking about to your four years of suffering... but there _was_ a time when I too feared that my child’s father and I would not get to raise our baby together.”

Caitlyn remembered that _she_ was the child of whom her mother spoke.

“I had no idea if I would ever see your father again. The Circle could track him, so we could not see a way to make a permanent escape, and we had no money. It was a terrifying time for me. My brother suggested that the best option was to wed a man I did not love, to... to go into his bed... and to pretend that you were his child instead of Malcolm’s.”

Caitlyn had known that, but she had never truly considered the appalling implications of it. Of all the ways that she had suffered, she had never had to contemplate  _that._ Over all the four years of separation, she had raised Mal by herself openly and never claimed to be a widow—and her mother had never once suggested that Caitlyn should do anything else. The price had been an added source of insults from vulgar Kirkwallers when they had lived in Lowtown, but it had been utterly worth it in the end when she met Anders again, free to pursue a future with him, without the trauma of having been basically forced to bed a spouse she did not want. That, however, had been the choice her mother had contemplated years ago before her father had returned.

“As you know, your father found a Templar and a priest who agreed that mages could have families without it hurting anyone, and he did a valuable task for the Grey Wardens to earn a large sum of money. _He_ found the answer. I had had no idea what to do. Of course I considered him the head of the family. It seemed only natural after that. He was the one who was better at solving problems and taking actions.” She sighed heavily. “I have seen some parallels between what your father did for me and what Anders has done for all of us, which is why I’ve treated him as I have... but I have been wrong not to see what you have also done, and I apologize.”

Caitlyn sighed heavily, a broken sigh that was almost a sob. “You really loved him,” she finally managed to say. “I mean... I knew that, but... I’ve just never heard you talk about him like this.” As the words left her mouth, she realized that she had not talked with her mother about serious topics at all, at least at length. That realization was a new pang for her. “Mother... I’m sorry. I’m sorry that my... situation... took him from you. You should have had more time with him, and I cost you that.”

“No, darling—don’t feel bad,” she said at once, hugging her daughter in a brief but crushing embrace. “I wish I could have had more time with him, but he didn’t die in vain, you know.”

Caitlyn felt strange about her mother’s crushing hug. It was not like one of her smothering embraces, the sort she gave when she did not want her children to do something dangerous. This was a hug of affection and sympathy, and it felt odd to Caitlyn. She had always been much closer to her father, and after he had died, she had been too hollowed out and broken over the dual loss of him and Anders, as well as the ongoing pregnancy, to really form a bond with her mother. They had become estranged without any actual hostility. Now, she was a mother herself, and she felt that she had missed something precious. When her mother hugged her this way, it felt like being a young girl again—but she also knew that she wasn’t, she couldn’t be again, she had to be an adult for Anders and Mal, and that time in her life was over. It was sad, and she did not know what to think yet.

_Perhaps I can accept my mother, being her daughter, having a real relationship with her, without being her “little girl” again,_ Caitlyn thought.  _It has to be that way now._ “What do you mean?” she finally said.

“Your father was passionate about mages in a quiet way,” Leandra said. “It wasn’t like you and Anders are—but he didn’t suffer, _we_ didn’t suffer, as you two did. Life went his way—our way—so he was content protecting his children. I think he knew that he was not destined to be the one who changed things... but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have convictions. Those convictions just were not about himself, you understand. He died trying to help someone else for one of his children—and, I think, because he already saw Anders as a foster son.” She caressed her daughter’s cheek. “I knew your father better than anyone, Cait. He would rather have died helping mages, including his child, than wasting away in a sickbed. And his choice has helped make you and Anders who you are.”

She gaped at her mother, shocked. Leandra was normally frivolous in her conversation. This was a stunningly serious topic. “I... didn’t want to think about it that way,” she admitted. “It seemed... presumptuous... to guess at what he wanted, how he would have wanted to die.”

“I’m sure he would have wanted more time,” Leandra agreed. “I’m sure he would have wanted to meet his namesake and see your wedding day. But you shouldn’t feel guilt about it anymore. He knew what the risks were when he left with Anders. We talked about it the night before, in private, alone. He knew, Caitlyn. He knew what might happen.”

Caitlyn felt new tears form in the corners of her eyes.

“He told me that night that he was more worried for you and Anders. You were so young, so innocent, and your love had just blossomed. We had had twenty-one years. We had lived a happy life. You were just getting started.” Leandra was almost crying too. “I think that on some level, he knew... he knew what would happen, more or less, though he didn’t want to believe it, because it would mean so much suffering. You’re still paying the price for that suffering, which is why the two of you have difficulties. But I also think he knew that it would work out for you two in the end.”

The tears fell from Caitlyn’s eyes. “Mother,” she whispered, suddenly pressing herself against her mother’s chest, feeling her mother’s arms envelop her. It had been years since she had allowed her mother to hug her like this.  _She_ had had to be a mother herself, tough and strong, a fighter. She had felt that she had to shield her vulnerability from literally everyone except Anders, and increasingly, even from him. It was scary when he had identified it so precisely tonight.  _That_ was why she had kicked him out. To open herself up was frightening, but it was also freeing.

They embraced for a while, years of misunderstanding and alienation between them not quite closed—that could never happen immediately—but finally, at last, acknowledged and recognized by both of them.  _It will be different between us now,_ Caitlyn thought as she finally let go.

Leandra gazed at her. “You should talk to him, dear. Please do it before it festers. Don’t let him wake up in that clinic by himself without anything resolved.”

Caitlyn did not want to face him—she knew that by “talk to him,” her mother actually meant “apologize to him,” because this was not his fault—but she also knew that her mother was probably right that it would be a bad idea to let him sleep off the rest of the night alone and angry.

_Maker’s breath, this is not going to be easy,_ she thought, feeling dread pool in her stomach.  _I told him I wouldn’t do this again. What can I possibly say to him now?_

She cast her gaze down, nodding. “I’ll do it now, then.”

* * *

When she gently cracked the door to the clinic open, she caught a momentary glimpse of Anders. His back was turned and he was apparently arranging bottles of herbs and medicines, but Caitlyn could tell that not much had been done. In truth, he was brooding and fuming while rearranging the bottles in circles just to keep his hands busy. She noticed the crate of empty flasks, which still held traces of bluish-purple translucent syrup: processed lyrium potions for mages, all gone. That thought gave her another pang. To treat his patients—to attempt to prevent a city-wide epidemic of contagious disease—he would have to yield full control to his familiar spirit whenever his mana was low, which was risky for all kinds of reasons. People might notice, and it couldn’t be a good idea for his own sake to let Justice do that frequently. There had to be another solution.

Anders quickly noticed that he had company, turning around at once. He glared at her silently, clearly not expecting much, based on the expression of anger and betrayal in his face. That hurt, and in that moment, the last vestiges of false pride about this vanished.

She stepped into the clinic and pulled the door shut. “Anders,” she said gently, “sweetheart... I’m so sorry.” She did not move closer to him, deciding in an instant to let him decide when to draw near to her. “You were right about every word you said. Every word.”

Anders’ eyes widened in surprise, and some of the anger melted from his face—not all, but some.

“It won’t happen again, Anders. I talked with Mother... I was actually angry at her, primarily, not you. But we talked, and it’s better now. We talked about the actual problem, and it won’t happen—I mean, I won’t _do it_ again. Really. Please come back to the house. She is still awake; we can all talk if you want.”

He swallowed and turned aside, his face betraying inner conflict. He gazed ahead silently for a minute before turning back to face her. “I’m glad you figured out what the actual problem was, and perhaps you won’t do this again about  _this_ issue, but what about things that may come up in the future?”

“I won’t do it, Anders!” she burst out.

“You said that once before.” She let out a cry, and he said hurriedly, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll come back to the house, back to our bedroom. But Cait... you _have_ to stop it.” He took a breath. “And not only for the sake of our relationship. You must find ways to identify and deal productively with the people who _actually_ cause problems, rather than finding an easy scapegoat, before you have any business trying to become a leader.”

Caitlyn stared at him, eyes wide, her face falling. That was a devastating critique—and it was one with which she could not argue.

“Trust me on this one,” he said, suddenly pained. “I’m not saying this from some sort of... of moral pedestal. I struggle with it too. Justice... when he is vengeful... sometimes wants to lash out against anyone nearby, and it’s _my_ fault when that is the case. But I’m not talking about becoming the ruling Viscount of Kirkwall someday.”

“And you don’t direct it at me,” she said quietly, her gaze falling to the ground. “I’ll stop, Anders, I swear I will. I don’t want to lose you.”

He moved closer, stopping inches away from her. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “I’m sorry for making you worry about that, love. You won’t—not over one slip when we’re all under too much Maker-damned stress. I... think I was too harsh with you.” He embraced her gently.

“You weren’t,” she said, welcoming the warmth of his arms around her. “I needed to hear that, what you said in the bedroom. I _have_ used you for emotional support and haven’t reciprocated as I ought. I’ve constantly been complaining about your hours during this epidemic and didn’t show much sympathy about the patient you lost today or the stress of feeling this weight on yourself that it has to be you because there is no one else.”

“You were right that I was giving too much unwanted detail about the nightmare, though.” He held her, and she returned the embrace at last. “What did you talk about with your mother?”

“How she... well, for years, I’ve felt that she has taken me for granted and not noticed what I did to help the family. And lately, she’s treated you as the head of the family and showered you with recognition and praise.”

Anders considered that. Leandra had been very eager to sing his praises, that he had noticed, but he had never noticed that she had taken one of her children for granted. Of course, he had not actually lived with Leandra Hawke for that much time, especially in Kirkwall, and since they had all moved into the fine house, he had spent a great deal of time in the clinic. If she behaved that way to Caitlyn, he might not have been in a position to notice it. _No wonder she was angry,_ he realized.

“And... I hesitate to say this, so please, don’t take this into your own hands—I will take care of it—but Fenris made another nasty comment yesterday about mages after Merrill, Aveline, and I helped him clear out some slavers and a Tevinter magister sent to hunt him. It was really bad this time, and Merrill and I stormed off, we were so angry.” She dared to look up to his face and saw that he was indeed outraged. “He’s sorry. He waited outside the house late yesterday evening to apologize, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. I’ll listen when I am good and ready.”

“Good,” Anders growled. “Make him think about what he said.”

“That’s what I said to Mother when she brought the message to me,” Caitlyn agreed. “I’ll handle it, love. But just... that, in combination with what Mother has been doing, taking me for granted and seeing what you do for the family but not what I do... I was wrong to take it out on you, though.”

He stood in place, holding her. “You said you talked about this with her?”

“Yes. It was actually a very good talk. We came to an understanding about... a lot of things. Anders,” she pleaded, “I am going to be more self-aware now about what I’m doing. I won’t blow up at you... well, unless I _really am_ angry at you, and if I am, I’ll tell you why and I won’t try to use words as weapons again.”

He squeezed her tightly before releasing her. “I understand why you were so angry if your mother has been taking you for granted and ignoring everything you have done. I _have_ noticed how much praise she has showered on me lately, but I didn’t realize she was ignoring your hard work. It’s no wonder you were furious when I said what I said tonight.”

“You weren’t wrong, though.”

“No, I think I was,” he said. He sighed, wincing. “I shouldn’t have implied that you were selfish and only took from me. I shouldn’t have implied that you never showed me any consideration and only treated me as an object to attack. That was cruel of _me,_ especially given what you were already angry about, and it isn’t true. You have given a lot to me.” He tilted her chin up so that they could look each other in the eye. “I’m sorry too.”

_He doesn’t take back the rest of it,_ she thought,  _but... that part isn’t false. And it was the part that actually triggered me to send him out, but that, I think, is because I knew it to be true. But it’s all right. It’s all right to be tough and hard for the general public while leaning on him in private. I just have to let him lean on me when he needs to._

“I think it’s going to be different from now on,” she said softly as they headed back through the clinic, locking the doors behind them, and entered the passage to the basement of the mansion. “She really didn’t know what she was doing, but she does now. I think it’ll be better—and I know to tell _her_ if she does something offensive to me again, not take it out on you.”

They stepped into the house proper and closed the doors to the basement behind them. “I will try to be around more, so I’ll know about anything else that may come up,” Anders said, “but... it’s still going to be tough in the near future, what with this disease outbreak.”

Leandra was still in the sitting room, waiting for them to make their appearances. When they did, a mild smile formed on her face. She gave them a nod of acknowledgment.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Caitlyn said to her, taking Anders’ hand. “We’re all right.”

She rose to her feet. “I’m glad. We can talk more tomorrow morning if you want, but I think what we all need right now is sleep.”

* * *

The next morning, Caitlyn noticed that her mother had rearranged the table. The ornate, fancy, velvet-cushioned chair that had been the head seat was no longer there. It had been replaced with one of the ordinary chairs, and the others had been moved around the table to fill the space.

“Last night, Caitlyn pointed out to me that my father’s chair was... well... it’s a symbol of what I was doing without intending it,” Leandra explained. “It is now in my bedroom, at my desk, instead of here. I hope you understand, Anders. I don’t mean any offense by switching it....”

“And I don’t take any,” he said. “This is how it should be. No one is set above the others.”

Leandra smiled back, pleased that peace was restored to the family.

After he had left to go to the clinic—with Mal once again—Caitlyn thought again about the fight last night. Although he had readily accepted her apology and offered his own, she still felt that she needed to make it up to him, to show him with an action, rather than words, that she meant to change how she treated him permanently. Helping him with the epidemic was the best thing that came to her mind. _I said I would talk to Varric about finding another source of lyrium for him,_ she thought. _And there is one other thing I could do._

* * *

“Hmm, lyrium, you say, Hawke?” Varric mused to himself. “That’s shady business.”

“Which is why I asked you,” she rejoined with a grin.

The dwarf smirked back. “Well, I wish I could point you to a source of the refined stuff, but the Chantry comes down so hard on that, there’s no one smuggler who specializes in it. It’s often a job that bosses hire out to independent mercenaries, different ones each time, so it’s almost untraceable if someone gets caught.”

Caitlyn’s face fell. Varric noticed, and he hurriedly continued. “But I do know of a cave outside the city where unrefined lyrium grows. If you know someone who can grind it into dust and has the recipes and supplies for turning it into usable potions, that’s an option.”

She considered this. Only those without a connection to the Fade, dwarves—dwarves who were not Grey Wardens—and Tranquil, could safely grind raw lyrium into the fine dust that could be dissolved and concentrated in lyrium potions. She absolutely refused to exploit former mages who had been destroyed; she would literally rather own a slave than do that. But dwarves....

A pair of dwarven merchants in Hightown entered her thoughts. One of them was the only merchant she had yet found in Kirkwall who could craft runes. They had gone along with Bartrand Tethras’s crew in the Deep Roads. “I think I can ask those dwarf merchants, Bodahn and Sandal, about it,” she said. “I bet they have recipes and equipment. The young one crafts lyrium into runes.”

Varric’s face lit up. “Oh—good idea, Hawke! I’m sure they can. So... did you want to mine the goods today?”

“As soon as possible,” she said. “It’s for Anders. He ran out of the supplies that the Grey Wardens send him regularly, because he’s using so much of it to help prevent a flu outbreak from becoming a pandemic.”

Varric drew back, shocked. “Right. We’ll do that as quickly as possible, then.”

“I’ll ask Merrill to come along,” she thought after a moment’s consideration. “I want to ask her about something related, while we’re there.”

* * *

The small group trudged through the dark cave, the two mages wearing heavily armored and runed gloves to prevent raw lyrium from coming in contact with their skin when they harvested veins of it and placed them in the crate that they wheeled behind them on a wagon. “Merrill,” Caitlyn said once the crate was almost full, “you know what this is for, of course: Anders ran out in the midst of a flu outbreak in Darktown, and he has no one else who can help him treat people, since any other skilled Healers are locked up in the Gallows or hiding in the shadows of the city.”

Merrill nodded. “It is a disgrace. The Dalish Keepers know healing magic; it is an essential part of protecting the clan, and whenever a disease takes root in one clan that the Keeper and First cannot treat, they send scouts to the neighboring clans to ask _their_ mages for help. We stick together as a people.” At the end, her voice wavered and broke, the memories of what she had lost becoming too painful suddenly.

“Oh,” Caitlyn said, surprised. It made sense that the only mages in a clan would be taught that, but Merrill had been her Keeper’s First, and she didn’t think that Merrill knew healing spells. “Do you know any healing spells yourself, then? I didn’t realize....”

Merrill shook her head sadly. “Keeper Marethari had not yet tutored me in that school of magic. I was to learn it, but we... parted ways before I could.”

“Well,” Caitlyn said, “how would you like to learn it after all? One spell, I mean,” she clarified. “The basic one. I know it. Anders taught it to me. I could show you.”

“But can you actually treat people who are ill with the flu?” Merrill said, confused.

Caitlyn shook her head. “Anders explained it to me; this one won’t work against that, but not every patient he sees has the flu. People with injuries, frostbite, exposure, hunger... they still see him. He still has to expend magical energy to treat them, even when flu patients come in.”

_“Oh!”_ The elf’s face lit up with understanding and delight.

“I take that as a yes,” Caitlyn said, smiling.

“Of course!” Merrill exclaimed. Her smile suddenly wavered. “That is... Anders disapproves of how I prefer to enhance and renew my mana. This lyrium... if you and I use it, there will be much less for him....”

“Merrill, you do what you are used to. No demons in the clinic, please....” _We already have a spirit,_ she thought wryly. “But do what suits you. I’ll talk to him about that.”

* * *

As the Hightown market sellers were closing up for the day, Caitlyn quietly explained to Bodahn and Sandal Feddic the task she was hiring them to do. “I’ll pay handsomely for it,” she said to the older dwarf. “This is critical. I’m not smuggling it; I’m giving it to my husband, a Healer who is trying to prevent a deadly disease from spreading in the city. He was in the expedition too.”

Bodahn nodded, accepting the crate. “You don’t have to pay extra for that. I actually sold some of the ingredients to the Hero of Ferelden and her companions during the Blight, you know. Not the, ah, dust itself, but the other potion-making supplies. I’ll charge you what I charged her, and we have the recipe for any strength of potion you need.”

“I have rarely used lyrium, as an apostate, so I don’t know what would be best. I just want you to use this raw material in the most efficient way you can,” Caitlyn said. “If that means all maximum-strength potions, that’s what I want; if it’s better to refine it into a large number of basic-strength ones, I want that. I want it put to the best use you can.”

“He is a powerful mage, isn’t he?”

Caitlyn nodded. “He is as powerful a Healer as I am a fighter. An Enchanter, a Grey Warden, and I would say a master Spirit Healer.”

“Then highly potent potions are the best.”

* * *

That night, she did not mind too much that Anders was going to come in late once again. Once she had read to Mal and put him to bed, she wanted to spend some time in the family library, and she wanted to do it privately. As she closed the door behind herself and studied the shelves of books by candlelight, a foreboding sense of doom settled in the pit of her stomach.

_“Once a mage starts to practice this kind of magic,” Malcolm Hawke warned her and Bethany, many years ago, “it’s very difficult to say no—or no more. There are those who do it out of malicious reasons, but what is more dangerous in a way is to do it as a justification of necessity.” His face became curiously pained at this moment, almost guilty. “Once you have said that the ends justify the means once, it takes a lot of willpower to stop. You push the line a little bit more... and more... and more....” He turned aside, sighing. “It is possible to make oneself stop and go no further, but not easy. Better to avoid it, Cait, Beth.”_

_Father, what would you do right now?_ Caitlyn asked in her thoughts as her emerald-eyed gaze shifted to the shelves of books that she had always studiously avoided until now.  _Anders cannot hold off this outbreak alone. He may think he can, and the lyrium will help, but he can’t do it. And I’m worried now that his magic will slip, his wards will become weaker, and he himself will catch the disease. He’s so terribly worn down and tired. What is the right thing to do, Father?_

Her father, of course, offered no answer in her memories. He had not actually told them that no mage should ever use blood magic, full stop. He certainly had not said that the only ones who did were evil monsters who wanted to puppeteer people’s minds and sacrifice innocents for malign power. His discussion of the subject was negative but nuanced. When he had talked to her and Bethany about blood magic, he had not told them the frightening tales that the Chantry apparently told young apprentices in the Circle, that doing it would damn their souls to the Void immediately and that the Maker would turn aside from them and give them over to demons of the Fade. Some mages used blood magic without ever consorting with a demon in their lives, and did nothing amiss with the magic itself; Malcolm told them as much. He was honest... but he  _had_ warned them that it was better to stay away from it if possible.

_I have all that lyrium, but I would probably use as much mana to power my basic healing spell as Anders would to power his specialized ones. I would need the lyrium to recover quickly as often as he would, I suspect, if not even more frequently—but I would get less done in terms of healing. That doesn’t seem like a good use of it. He should have the lyrium exclusively, I think._

Caitlyn sighed. Her gaze settled on a thick black tome titled _Malleus Maleficarum,_ a Tevinter book, the title stamped on it in red, the color of blood itself. She closed her eyes for a quick moment—but instantly opened them again. _No. If I’m going to do this, I will do it with eyes open. I won’t hide._ Taking a deep breath, she pulled the tome from the shelf, sat down in a chair, and began to read.

About an hour later, she was staring wide-eyed at the pages and gasping in disbelief at what she was reading.

_The wards!_ she thought.  _The wards he taught me to cast on the house in Lothering! This book describes wards almost exactly like that, but more powerful, based on blood—blood that would call out to others of that kin, that couldn’t be used except by someone with this blood. Father! You... you...._

_I’ve already performed blood magic and I never even knew it._

_Father, you lied to me. You told me it wasn’t. I asked you, and you said it wasn’t._

_He lied because I was a young girl,_ Caitlyn told herself, trying to ease her distress.  _He needed the house warded, and I had to be the one to do it so that Mother could come in—I or Bethany. It had to be done. The safety of our family depended on it. I am sure that Anders would have been captured much, much sooner without them, too, since they blocked the signal of his phylactery when he was in the house. I might owe Mal’s existence to those wards._

_But isn’t that exactly what Father warned us about, justifying it once because it’s necessary to achieve what we want, and then losing control? Still... he stopped with that. He didn’t do anything more. It is possible. He did it. And... I did it._

Trying to control her breathing, she returned to the book. This book did discuss the darker ways to use blood magic, and she was determined to avoid those.  _This is where I draw the line,_ she vowed.  _Those wards, I guess, and this—using it to power other spells that I already know how to do, to help others. In this case, sacrificing my own blood to heal people, to let Anders focus on the patients that only he can treat. This is all right. This is acceptable, and this will be where it stops._

She read and, gingerly, practiced with her dagger and her own arm, until she heard the basement door open and close. Then she quickly shelved the book, healed her cut, and hurried to bed. She didn’t want to have this talk with Anders right now, this late at night.

* * *

Merrill visited the house the following day, and since Mal eagerly followed Anders to the clinic as usual, that left the two female mages to their own devices. Caitlyn took advantage of the time to teach Merrill what she knew about basic magical healing—and to inform her of what she had just learned herself.

Merrill smiled wryly at her friend. “I told you,” she said in an undertone as she quickly mastered the healing spell. “It’s just another path.”

“Well, I just wish you hadn’t turned to a demon to learn it, that’s all. But—we’re friends. And we’re working together on this epidemic now. I won’t hound you.”

Later in the day, after Anders and Mal had put in appearances for lunch and then departed back to the clinic, the Feddics dropped off Caitlyn’s crate again, this time filled with dozens of corked flasks of processed and refined lyrium.

“Holy Maker,” Caitlyn swore as she paid the dwarves, “this is amazing, and it’s even more impressive that you could do it so quickly!”

“If I may say so, Hawke, we’re the best,” said Bodahn with a grin.

“I believe it,” she said, awed.

Once they had left, she turned to Merrill with a nod. Carefully, to ensure that none of the flasks holding the precious lyrium potions broke from jostling, they lifted up the crate and headed toward the basement entrance.

* * *

“Knock-knock,” Caitlyn called out to Anders from outside the clinic. “I’ve got something for you, dear.”

In a few moments, the door opened from the inside. Anders stood in the doorway, Mal a couple of feet behind him. Anders looked at her, then Merrill, then the heavy wooden box they carried. It was a closed crate, because they did not want anyone—even loiterers just outside the clinic—to see what was inside, but Anders instantly guessed.

“Maker’s flaming breath,” he exclaimed, closing the door as soon as they were inside. The clinic was empty right now. “Scoot out of the way, son; let your mother and Merrill come through. Is this....” He opened the crate and gaped. “It _is._ This is...” He lifted one flask and held it up to the light, examining it. “Master Lyrium Draught, I’d guess, based on its opacity. This is the very best. The contents of this crate are probably worth three hundred sovereigns on the black market, maybe more. How did you _get_ this?” His eyes suddenly filled with alarm. “Cait, please tell me you didn’t hire the Carta, making yourself vulnerable to blackmail, to obtain this....”

“I did not,” she said. “Varric, Merrill, and I mined the raw lyrium— _yes,_ Anders, _carefully,_ with armored gloves”—for his eyes were widening even more at those words—“and I paid the Feddics to grind it into dust and then make this. They did it overnight and earlier today. They’re trustworthy, love. They were with us in the Deep Roads.”

Anders blinked and quickly covered the crate again. Unconcerned that Merrill was there, he pulled Caitlyn close and kissed her briefly but passionately. He ran his fingers through her hair and down her cheeks, pulling away and quickly gazing into her eyes. “I... don’t know what to say,” he finally managed. “This will make all the difference in the world. This is better than what Lady Cousland was sending me. Thank you so much.”

Caitlyn smiled warmly at him. “You’re welcome,” she said. “And there’s more.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she said. “Merrill and I both know the basic healing spell now—the one that works on injuries and a few diseases. You still have patients coming in who don’t have the flu, who need you for other things. What I propose is that you take everyone who has the flu, or another infectious disease, or an emergency like that poor girl who was stabbed by the Templars—anyone who needs specialized healing—and direct the others to us.”

He considered this offer, visibly conflicted. “I don’t know that I can ask that of either of you,” he said. “You could get caught. A lot of people are seeing me because of this outbreak, and word might get out. You’re both apostates, and Merrill is a blood mage.”

Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably. “Well, actually....”

He had not noticed her sudden awkwardness. “How about this. I concede your point about dividing the labor. But before you and Merrill risk yourselves for this, let’s at least see if the epidemic will... change any minds.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“The Knight-Commander is probably a lost cause,” he said with a sneer forming on his lips involuntarily. “But perhaps you and Mother Petrice could put some pressure on Grand Cleric Elthina to force Meredith to let a few Healers out of the Circle to assist me with this. They may not know about the outbreak, since it is confined _so far_ to Darktown. And I think she might be more amenable if one of her own priests is backing this request.”

_He really is concerned for our safety if he is considering that,_ Caitlyn realized. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll ask. But... if nothing comes of it... I do want you to let us help you.”

He nodded in resignation. “I will. But let’s try this first.” He gazed at the crate of lyrium again. “And thank you so, so much for this.”

As Caitlyn and Merrill left the clinic, her heart felt light once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bodahn and Sandal wouldn’t have enough work to do to make a living if they served the Hawkes and friends exclusively. There is no vast tract of land with knights, soldiers, bannermen, servants, etc., who would need supplies. It’s just a player convenience when they move in.
> 
> If you’re a bit worried about the possibility of future Viscountess Caitlyn the Maleficar, she’s not an idiot and knows that she isn’t going to convince anybody about _that._ She knows this is one secret that must remain so, even if her plan is to out herself as a mage eventually. Temptation might just present itself in the future, though.


	28. Tremble To Think That the Maker Is Just

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flu epidemic was not in my original outline for this story, and I actually only came up with the idea for it as I was writing chapter 26. But I realized while writing chapter 27 that it was a great opportunity to formally introduce Sebastian and Meredith, as well as to showcase what Elthina is like in this AU, so here you go.
> 
> Song inspiration is “The Prayer Position” by AFI, with a very slight adaptation.

Merrill did not want to go to the Chantry, and Caitlyn did not blame her. They parted at the surface, Caitlyn urging Merrill to stay in the Hawke house until she came back from her errand.

Caitlyn was almost turned away immediately by a sister of the faith. “The Grand Cleric is in a private meeting with His Highness the Prince of Starkhaven,” the sister explained. “I am taking messages from citizens to pass to her for when she is finished.”

Caitlyn wondered momentarily what a foreign prince was doing in Kirkwall, consulting with Kirkwall’s Grand Cleric in private meetings with nobody else present. Did Viscount Dumar know about this? He had the Grand Cleric’s ear as well and might tell her state secrets or, even more likely given that she was a priest, personal confessions about himself and his family that could be used against him by an enemy or a rival. Starkhaven was an ally, to the extent that any of the Marcher cities were allied—which was to say, conditionally and clouded with suspicion as rivals—but it still seemed extremely improper for the two people to be conferring together without a representative from the Viscount’s office present. She craned her head; unless she was badly mistaken, Meredith Stannard was lurking in the back.

Caitlyn instantly decided to pursue her planned course. “Actually,” she said to the sister, “I am here to see another priest, Mother Petrice. Is _she_ available?”

Petrice was in her personal quarters, purportedly studying religious texts, but the documents that she had on her desk when Caitlyn was admitted into the room did not appear to be anything but letters. When Caitlyn explained to her what she would like done, Petrice shook her head and sighed.

“I have my doubts that she will consent to this,” the priest said. “I think you would be better off staying low and pursuing your own plan with yourself and the elf woman without raising suspicions.”

“You may be right,” she admitted, “but Anders wants to try this first, and it is his clinic.”

“You could tell him you asked and were rebuffed.”

“I do not want to lie to him,” Caitlyn said, her tone sharper. “Lately we have had a bit of marital trouble and I don’t want to do that. It’s not right.”

“Marital trouble? Do you need to confess anything?”

It was all Caitlyn could do to keep her head from spinning at the juxtaposition of this priest advising her to lie to her husband one moment, and in the next, implying that she might have a sin against her marriage to confess. Petrice’s situational morality was going to be a challenge for her to deal with in the future, she feared. But for now, she just forbore from rolling her eyes and heaving a sigh of exasperation. “No, Mother Petrice. The trouble was just a heated argument, nothing worse than that, and we talked it out. My point is, he wants to try getting Circle Healers first. I will make the request to Elthina myself; I’m just asking you to stand with me and back me up if she asks you.”

Petrice rose to her feet, picking up her papers and locking them in a drawer. She pocketed the key. “Very well. I will go with you. Is she still with the Prince of Starkhaven?”

“Apparently she is. If you know, and you’re allowed to say, what is that about?”

She checked the door to make certain it was closed and peered through the keyhole to be sure no one was listening. “They have a history. The Prince was wild and sinful as a young man, and his royal family sent him to the Chantry to repent and become a brother of the faith. She was his mentor. He has been coming frequently to ask her for advice about what course to pursue concerning the slaughter of his family—whether to pursue vengeance against their killers and take the throne of Starkhaven, or remain in the Chantry.”

“If they know each other, I suppose that must be his reason, but that seems mightily... well, selfish and entitled, if I may say so,” she said. “The Grand Cleric serves Kirkwall, yet she is locked in her office with a foreign leader for hours about a personal problem of his, inaccessible to her people.”

Petrice did not reply to that, but her mouth curled into a faint smirk at Caitlyn’s sharp condemnation of the high priest.

Caitlyn was prepared to knock heavily on the Grand Cleric’s door when they reached her office, but Elthina opened the door for Prince Sebastian first. Caitlyn could not help but gawk at the man, and not in a complimentary way. He wore white enameled armor, which seemed manifestly ridiculous—how did he keep it clean? Was it just parade armor? It didn’t look like it—and a heavy bow and quiver were strapped to his back, a violation of the rule that one was not supposed to bring weapons into a house of the Maker. _I suppose if you are a prince and a brother, you can have the rules bent,_ she thought bitterly. As Caitlyn quickly examined him, she noticed that a sculpt of the head of Andraste was... well, very unfortunately placed. Had no one ever told him? Caitlyn almost burst out laughing at the thought of what Anders would say if he ever saw it. _He_ certainly would not hold back.

The Prince was still profusely thanking the Grand Cleric even as she was ushering him out the door. “Thank you, Your Grace, you are the most holy, the wisest mentor that a sinner can ask for....”

_What in the Void?_ Caitlyn thought, bewildered. Who spoke like that without its being an act, and a blatant one at that? Yet it seemed real in this case. What kind of person was this? He behaved like a child, and if he had the nerve to monopolize the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall for hours for personal advice, that was also childish.  _Yet childish adults can be very...._ Caitlyn broke off that thought, trying not to judge so harshly. Some immature adults were dangerous; others were not.

Elthina seemed to appreciate the effusive praise, however, patting the young prince on his armored shoulder. “I only point you to the Maker and His Prophet,” she said serenely. “You will receive your answer, Sebastian, if you pray enough, and it will be when the Maker wills it. We cannot rush that.” She noticed Petrice and Caitlyn, and the broad, rather smug and self-satisfied look on her face faded— _at the prospect that she might have actual work to do?_ Caitlyn thought darkly.

“Good afternoon, my sister,” Elthina said to Petrice. She nodded curtly to Hawke. “And Lady Caitlyn Hawke. I heard of your mother’s restoration to the family property and your recent marriage to the Fereldan Grey Warden we have here. Congratulations to your family.”

Sebastian stopped in the corridor. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance too,” he said. “I am Sebastian of Starkhaven. Others may call me by a title, but I have not decided yet.... You restored the fallen fortunes of your family, as the Grand Cleric says?”

Caitlyn was rather taken aback at this interjection. “I have,” she said, “and I heard of the tragedy of yours. You have my sympathies, but the situations are different, so you must consider what is right for you.”

Elthina stepped forward, maternal once again, as she dealt with him. “There now, Sebastian, I must speak with them now. We may confer later after you have reflected quietly and prayed.”

Caitlyn’s respect for him shrank even lower when he acquiesced to this coaxing and prepared to leave, but before he could effect his exit, the meeting was interrupted by the Chantry sister who had been essentially guarding the Grand Cleric from her own people before. Behind her was Meredith Stannard, who was fully armored and armed—yet another carrying weapons in the Chantry—and who looked very angry.

“What is the meaning of this?” the sister exclaimed. “The Grand Cleric was _not_ to be interrupted, serah,” she said to Hawke. “The Knight-Commander will escort you—oh.” She grimaced as she noticed Petrice’s presence, suddenly realizing the situation.

“That’s right, Sister Rictruda,” said Petrice menacingly. “We have legitimate business with her, and the Prince was already leaving her office when we approached it. You owe this lady an apology.”

Caitlyn’s heart had almost stopped at the sister’s words about Meredith escorting her. She was absolutely convinced that the hostile Templar leader suspected that she was a mage, and she did not want to be alone with the woman. For the first time, she wondered if Petrice had been right and she should have just agreed to tell a white lie to Anders—or even say that she couldn’t get an audience with Elthina at all, which would not really have been a lie. This was becoming dangerous. Anders was not here to invoke the Right of Conscription. She had not, of course, brought her staff; any defense would be limited to what she could do unaided. And while she firmly believed that Petrice was another who armed herself in the Chantry and likely carried poisons and daggers beneath those priestly robes right now, she doubted that Petrice would attack the Knight-Commander and Grand Cleric for her—unless they could scramble a plan quickly to account for the evidence.

“I... am sorry,” said Rictruda, her gaze cast down. “Your Highness....”

“Brother Sebastian, if you will,” he said.

“As you wish, serah. If your business with Her Grace is concluded, I will show you to your quarters.”

The sister and the white-armored Sebastian left. Caitlyn and Petrice followed Elthina into her office. Meredith Stannard looked as though she wanted to force herself in, but she allowed them to close the door behind her.

Caitlyn breathed out, trying to clear her mind of the fearful trail of wild, desperate thoughts that had almost taken her over. _It’s all right,_ she reassured herself. _It’s going to be all right._

They sat down. Caitlyn gazed across the high priest’s desk, which was covered in papers and books. Petrice sat next to her, silent. Caitlyn knew that this was up to her. The priest had told her that.

“Your Grace,” she said to Elthina, “I came here today and spoke with your... sister in the faith... about a crisis among Kirkwall’s poor that is developing. As you know, Warden Anders, my husband, was sent here by the Warden-Commander of Ferelden to help the Blight refugees as a mage Healer. Over the past few days, an outbreak of disease—influenza, specifically—has been taking hold in Darktown. He is doing his best to control it and prevent it from spreading further, but he is only a single Healer, and he’s becoming overwhelmed.”

“I am very sorry to hear this,” Elthina said, though her voice was almost toneless. “I will be sure to include them in my thoughts and prayers.”

Sudden anger flared up inside Caitlyn at that response. “Thank you for that, Your Grace,” she said, her teeth almost clenched. The remark was almost a snarl, but she didn’t much care. “However, there is an action that you could take as well to assist the Warden mission.” She decided to phrase it that way on purpose, since it sounded loftier than asking for a personal favor for _Anders—_ and while suppressing this epidemic might not be a specific Warden order for him, it was within the purview of his task _._ “In his capacity as a Healer, drawing on his expertise, he has told me that he thinks additional trained mage Healers would be very helpful. Mother Petrice and I have come here today to formally request that you release some from the Circle of Magi to aid in this.”

When Petrice did not contradict that, Elthina realized that it was true. She sighed heavily. Caitlyn’s hope began to fade.

“I will look into the matter,” she said, “but the chain of command is uncertain.”

“I’m not sure I understand you,” Caitlyn said, an edge to her voice. “Do you need permission from Val Royeaux? I understood that in the Blight, the Grey Wardens had the aid of all able Circle mages and did not need to ask anyone outside Ferelden for permission.”

“That was during the Blight,” replied the high priest. “There is no Blight now. I could release mages from the Circle temporarily, of course, but it is unclear if Grey Wardens have the authority to command them in the absence of a Blight.”

Caitlyn gaped at the woman. “It is an outbreak of disease!” she exclaimed. “If they cannot take orders from An—from _Warden_ Anders directly, could they not take orders from someone else to work _with_ him?”

“I shall bring the Knight-Commander into this discussion,” Elthina said, rising from her seat. “She should be involved in it.”

Caitlyn was prepared at that point to give up and walk out, but of course, it was impossible now. Miserably she stared at her lap, not even wanting to look at Petrice—who had been absolutely correct. Did the Grand Cleric really not care about a pestilence in her city? _She would care if it affected Hightown,_ she thought darkly.

The blonde Templar was ushered into the office, a heavy glower on her face as the high priest explained the nature of the request to her. She did not take a seat, but stood in the corner in full armor, lurking behind the Grand Cleric’s desk as though she were the woman’s hired muscle.

“There is precedent to allow mages of the Circle liberty to stray outside the Gallows in service to the city in an emergency,” Elthina said, though her tone seemed almost reluctant to Caitlyn. “The Chantry would need to conduct an investigation of this flu outbreak to determine the extent of the pestilence and whether the Grey Warden Healer has it in hand.”

“Conduct an investigation?” Caitlyn burst out, her eyes wide. She tried to collect herself. “Your Grace. With all due respect”—the words felt like a lie, but she knew she needed to say them—“there have already been deaths. You can ask my husband the Healer for his professional, expert opinion. Who would know better? If this isn’t controlled, it will become a city-wide pandemic!”

“No, it won’t,” Meredith spoke up coldly. “There are alternative ways of controlling it that do not require the use of magic.”

Caitlyn felt sick at what the Knight-Commander had apparently implied. For a moment she was actually unable to speak, she was so appalled. Wouldn’t the Grand Cleric speak against the idea that she was hinting at? Wouldn’t _her_ ally?

“We could conduct an investigation,” Petrice began to say, to Caitlyn’s eternal gratitude, “but Serah Hawke has a point that time is of the essence when it comes to controlling disease. In Val Royeaux, pestilence can spread quickly in the poorer neighborhoods. We can speak with the Grey Warden Healer Anders and send out brothers and sisters to _quickly_ find the ill to ensure that the Chantry has gathered its own evidence as well. The Healer could direct us to the patients he has treated. It could be done in an afternoon and the Circle mages sent out that evening.”

Elthina looked cornered, and her face contorted into prunes. She appeared ready to order the investigation, however reluctantly, when Meredith spoke again, blood vessels on her neck pulsing visibly, the lines of her face and tendons in her neck in sharp outline from her outrage.

“Darktown, where this Grey Warden mage works, is a known location of apostates and maleficarum, as well as hideouts of the illegal ‘Mage Underground’ organization!” she sputtered. “I will _not_ authorize any of my mages to serve in that place, surrounded by such temptation and so many people who would help them flee the Circle. Even working beside a Grey Warden mage would tempt them, especially this one. Don’t think I don’t know something of his history, Serah Hawke,” she added menacingly to Caitlyn.

“I beg your pardon?” Caitlyn did not bother to disguise her contempt. It was very clear now that she was not going to get a single mage, but she also wasn’t going to lose her dignity and take this kind of treatment without returning some hostility of her own.

“You’re married to him now, but I’ve heard of your child. If he really is the boy’s father—”

“He _is,”_ Caitlyn snarled.

“Then you conceived while the Warden was an apostate, living unlawfully outside the Circle. I suppose you and your family sheltered him and that was how he repaid you.”

If it were a fair fight and Caitlyn had her staff with her, she would have struck the Knight-Commander dead for that, reducing her to a fireball of burning flesh. But she was not alone, and she was unarmed except for her native magic. As infuriating as it was, she had no choice but to try to calm her rage.

“Knight-Commander,” Petrice said angrily, “this is unworthy. What you speak of occurred in the past. It is well-known that conscription into the Grey Wardens supersedes prior obligations, and Serah Hawke and Warden Anders have done right since then in the sight of the Maker.”

“Yes,” Elthina finally chimed in, “personal attacks are beneath us all. Let us discuss the matter at hand.”

“There is nothing to discuss. I will not release any mages for this. If the Hero of Ferelden wants this done, she can send more Grey Warden mages herself. Darktown is home to criminals and Fereldan refugees, and the Circle of Kirkwall owes no aid to Fereldans.”

Elthina looked down at her desk. “The Knight-Commander makes a valid point,” she said, not looking either of her guests in the eye. “There is no obligation of one nation’s mages to aid citizens of another, outside of the Blights.”

“The disease does not differentiate between Fereldans and Kirkwallers,” Caitlyn said.

“The citizens of Kirkwall have long suffered from maleficarum who follow in the ancient Tevinters’ footsteps and prey upon them,” Elthina said, rising at last from her chair. “Most residents of the old mines who are not criminals are Fereldan refugees. If I overrode the Knight-Commander’s decision and released mages into Darktown to aid foreigners, there could be uproar.”

“Your Grace,” Caitlyn said, eyeing the Grand Cleric dubiously, “are you a high priest of the Chantry, voice of the Prophet Andraste, Bride of the Maker—or a Kirkwall politician?”

Meredith sputtered, Petrice stared at Caitlyn in surprise, and Elthina drew back sharply, deeply offended. “Even priests of the Chantry must sometimes take worldly matters into account when making decisions,” she said, ice in her words that had not been there before in the conversation. It was clear she was regarding Caitlyn in a new and more threatening light. “This is simply far too murky a legal matter, and the Knight-Commander raises valid points about the safety of the Darktown environment for the Circle mages. I shall pray for those who are ill in this disease outbreak and for the Maker to turn his gaze upon your Warden husband as he treats it. Peace to you, Lady Caitlyn Hawke.”

That was a blatant dismissal, and, turning on her heels haughtily, Caitlyn stalked out of the nave, Petrice walking beside her.

“I told you so,” Petrice said once they were in the private rooms again.

Caitlyn turned to the priest and gazed narrowly at her. “You’ll actually say those exact words. Subtle you are not.”

Petrice chuckled darkly. “This, from the woman who just threw down a gauntlet in front of the Grand Cleric! She will see you as a potential threat now, you know.”

“That was inevitable someday soon, given our plans, and I prefer to have battle lines drawn. I do not play the Game, Mother Petrice. I was raised in Ferelden and we are blunt. I just hope I can still count on you.”

“You can, and I do think you have a point, Hawke. I am not surprised that this discussion went the way it did and I think it’s for the best that you saw her for what she is. She shifted from one excuse to another; her decision was already made. I was concerned that _I_ could no longer count on _you_ when you asked me to support you as you asked her for help.”

“I see her for what she is, all right,” Caitlyn said bitterly. “It’s a disappointment; I did hope that I could persuade her on a humanitarian concern this once—and it would have had nothing to do with our future plans—but apparently not. She will let a deadly disease spread if the alternative is to release some Circle mages to treat it.”

“It is short-sighted and foolish,” the priest agreed, “and the enemies of this city may take advantage of it. It is widely known that the oxmen have their explosive black powder and other advanced weapons that we do not have. The poor, some of them, may get the idea that the Qunari can treat their disease without magic—or perhaps Qunari agents could _spread_ that idea, whether it is true or not. This is the type of crisis, affecting the exact population, that they exploit best.”

Although she loathed many social practices of the Qun herself, Caitlyn found the priest’s Qunari obsession a bit tiresome in general—but this was actually a valid point, and she acknowledged it. “You’re right,” she said. “The question now is, what are we going to do about it? Anders cannot hold back the flood himself, and he’s going to kill himself if he tries, I fear. He has avoided catching the flu so far, but he has to have help or he’ll have no strength left.” Something suddenly occurred to her as the implications of this meeting sank in with her. “Mother Petrice, I do need to ask you something else. Does Ser Varnell take direct orders from you? Can you order him to do something other than be your bodyguard, or is he restricted by people higher up?”

“I can give him other orders, yes, but our superiors might notice if I stationed him outside your husband’s clinic to guard it, if that is what you are hinting at.”

“Not precisely,” Caitlyn said. “What I have in mind is intelligence-gathering. Since my friend and I have no choice now but to take some of the workload off Anders, we’ll need protection. We’ve never been in the Circle, so they cannot track us, but now that I’ve talked to the Grand Cleric and Knight-Commander about this, I’m concerned that they might keep a close watch on his clinic for apostates showing up to help him. We do have a quick getaway, but if Ser Varnell could keep an ear open for any plans of his fellows to check on the clinic....”

Petrice nodded. “I can direct him to do that. I cannot guarantee your safety, though, Hawke. Believe me,” she added as Caitlyn’s eyebrows flew up in sudden mistrust, “the last thing I want is for my noble ally to be thrown into the Gallows—or for that to happen to your friend after I gave you my word that I would try to prevent it. But I cannot promise that he will overhear _everything_. I am not intending to fail to act while preemptively covering for it, Hawke; it’s just a fact.”

She breathed in and out, nodding at last. “I understand. We do have a quick escape very close to the clinic, and in the worst case, Anders can invoke the Right of Conscription. But any heads-up that Varnell can give would be helpful.”

“And I understand _that,_ and I will tell him to do this.”

As she left the Chantry at last, Caitlyn decided that the time had come to have another discussion with Anders that she had, however briefly, avoided. She had not had anything to confess to a priest, but she did have something to confess to him. She hoped that he would be reasonable about it.

* * *

She was not surprised in the least when, after she returned to the clinic and told him about the disastrous interview, Justice briefly took him over.

“I thought that she would release a few Healers for the good of the city!” he roared, blue light blazing from his eyes. His wrath was not, of course, directed at Caitlyn, so even though it was still intimidating when this happened, she was not afraid of him personally.

“I had hopes of it until Petrice warned me that she probably wouldn’t do it,” she replied.

Anders—Justice?—turned around, Fade-light still blazing from his eyes and running down his body. “I did not approve of that priest,” he boomed, “because I did not think that the Grand Cleric was... wicked. I thought her weak and beholden. But this discussion shows otherwise. She is unjust. She hides behind the Knight-Commander! Do as you will in your alliance. She must go, by whatever means necessary.” His amplified, attenuated spirit voice was dark and menacing.

Mal had been studying the jars of dried herbs in the supply area, but this got his attention. He turned around and stared in shock. “Father?” he said. Anders did not appear to hear.

Caitlyn _was_ frightened now, because a pure spirit of Justice surely would not endorse a figure like Petrice, let alone “whatever means necessary.” This seemed like its Vengeance aspect, and that was scary with their son present. She swallowed hard, deciding to attempt humor on it, to bring Anders back out and get the spirit to recede. “I’m happy to know I have your approval,  _dear,”_ she said, forcing sarcasm into her words.

The gambit worked. The light in his eyes wavered a bit and then began to recede quickly. In a moment, he was himself again, breathing heavily. He gazed at her, shocked.

“Are you all right?” she asked, relieved.

Anders breathed heavily once again, trying to control his temper and his spirit. “Yes. Maker’s fu... blood,” he quickly corrected himself, remembering the child.

Mal approached his parents. “Father? Are you all right? Was that... magic?”

Anders looked horribly guilty as he faced his son. “I—yes, I am all right,” he said brokenly, his face crumpled. “It was magic, son. Special magic. I’ll tell you more about it when you’re older.”

Caitlyn had not wanted him to see that, and she had something to show Anders that she also did not want him to see. “Mal,” she urged, “let’s go see what Grandma and Orana have been doing! And I bet Pounce and Baldwin would like some playtime.”

“Oh, yes,” the boy said eagerly. “I love Baldwin. And I love Pounce too.”

As Anders waited in the clinic, still looking devastated and ashamed of himself, she hurried him to the shortcut and into the basement of the house. Once he was safely inside, she returned to Darktown and reentered the clinic, where Anders was still waiting.

“Please don’t scold me,” he begged her when she came back. “There’s nothing you could say that I haven’t said to myself in my mind. I never wanted Mal to witness that, let alone....” He broke off, shuddering.

Caitlyn thought she knew what he had avoided saying. “I know. He didn’t seem like Justice. He seemed vengeful. Was that... well... his dark aspect?”

Anders blanched. “Yes, I think he was Vengeance. I’m very,  _very_ angry about the Grand Cleric,” he said, “and... I’m sure that is why it happened.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I will try not to let my anger bleed into him like that again. It’s unfair to him.”

She moved closer and gave him a kiss on the cheek to reassure him.

He managed a smile and really did appear calmed now. “All right,” he said. “I hoped that the Grand Cleric would listen to one of her own priests, at least, but it seems not, so we have no choice now. I’m still concerned about supplies, though. I know Merrill doesn’t require lyrium to boost her magic, but... oh _holy Maker.”_

Caitlyn had raised her arm, displaying the cloth wrap that she had wrapped around it during her brief stop at home and the red stain on the cloth. She gazed back at him pointedly.

“What have you done?” he exclaimed, distraught. “Did _she_ involve you in demonic—”

“No,” Caitlyn replied at once. “I read about how to do it in a book that the slaver gang left behind in the family library. Anders... I also realized... I read about a blood ward in that same book, and I think it’s the one my father based his wards on when we lived in Lothering.” She stared pleadingly at him. “If that’s the case, I’ve _already_ used blood magic. I just didn’t know it.”

Anders was silent for a moment before replying. “Yes,” he croaked. “The wards were blood magic. He confessed it when we were... walking on the road _that_ day. I never thought to tell you. It didn’t seem important and I didn’t want to tarnish your memories of your father, to have you think of him as a ‘maleficar’....”

She closed the distance between them and caressed his cheek. “This doesn’t do that, Anders,” she assured him. “I know he did it for a good reason—had me do it, I should say—and the book said that you don’t actually have to deal with demons to perform a spell; you just draw magic from your own life force. I certainly didn’t feel any demons when I put up those wards, years ago, and I won’t have anything to do with them when I use it to renew my magic after healing people.”

“Doing it at all makes you more susceptible to them.”

“Being a mage makes you more susceptible to them,” she retorted. “I can handle this.”

He was still grimacing. “But... I just hate that you’re risking yourself for me. And a few years ago, you would have hated the idea of doing it at all, for any reason. What is the line now?”

“This is the line,” she said firmly. “This, right here. Protective wards and a backup source of magic for crucial occasions when I don’t have another option. I will not learn any spells for enslaving people’s minds or boiling their blood from the inside or stealing life force from my own friends.”

He placed his hands on her upper arms, holding her though not fully embracing her. His expression was uneasy and sad, but resigned. “All right,” he said. “I trust you. I really do. If any mage can hold to that line, it’s you. I believe in you, love, and I’ll support you.”

“What do you mean, ‘support’?” She was moved by his vote of confidence, but she did not really believe that Anders, who was against blood magic, would “support” her study of it.

“I mean that you can tell me if you’re ever feeling... tempted, or if you cross your line and need to talk about it. I _want_ you to confide in me if that ever happens. I want you to know, darling, that you can trust me. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Without a word, without anything but a muted cry, she wrapped her arms around him tightly. He enveloped her in his, caressing her shoulders and burying his face in the scent of her hair. In that moment, he did believe that they could do anything as long as they stood beside each other.

* * *

Caitlyn and Merrill came to the clinic every morning after that. Together the three of them put up a transparent magical barrier to divide the clinic in order to separate the contagious patients from those who were not, since only Anders knew how to ward his face. He had discovered the spell for the barrier in the Grey Wardens’ supplies, and the Warden-Commander had told him it had been given to her in a Fereldan village called Honnleath in return for a service getting rid of a demon. Anders had taken notes on it himself, deeming it something he might need to use later—as he was doing now.

The two women had never studied healing before and only recently had learned even the basic spell, but that was still helpful for the patients who came into the clinic with minor injuries, exposure, and other conditions that were readily treatable. Merrill did know a great deal about herbalism and was able to specialize in potions for these patients, which enabled Caitlyn to further hone her spellcasting—and her new method of restoring magical energy to herself.

She and Merrill kept their open wounds concealed—in her case, by sleeves. Merrill’s Dalish armor was more revealing, but she could pretend that the wrap covering her blood font was actually just a decoration. Caitlyn still tried not to tap from that source of magic any more than she had to. She knew that Anders did not actually like this, though he recognized the necessity of it in the ongoing emergency, and she did not want to become reliant on it herself either.

The first day that she and Merrill began working beside Anders, a visitor showed up who was not a patient. Caitlyn suddenly noticed that Anders was seething, as she glanced askance across the magical barrier, and she followed his glare to the open door. A familiar face towered behind the next patient who was waiting in line: Fenris.

Caitlyn did not have anyone to treat right this moment, so she decided to see to this before Anders blew up. She walked through the door on “her” side of the clinic and stood in front of him, staring pointedly.

He looked down, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I heard from Varric that you and Merrill were helping him with the disease outbreak,” Fenris said, unable to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” she replied. “We are. We’re taking all the patients that don’t require Anders’ specialized skills in order to ease his workload.” She pointedly stared at him until he lifted his gaze to hers.

“I am sorry for my reaction in the Tevinter lair the other day,” Fenris said abruptly. “I was wrong to condemn all mages. This”—he gazed through the open doors at the clinic—“these are good deeds. Please carry my apology to Merrill as well, and Anders.”

She nodded. “Apology accepted. I have tried to be understanding because you have reasons to feel the way you do about magic, but that day, that comment—I was already angry about something else involving my mother, and you _did_ cross a line, Fenris.”

“I know. I will make sure I don’t do that again. It is... very strange... for me to accept the aid of mages who truly don’t mean ill to me, who are not trying to trick and deceive me. But so it is.” He did not smile, exactly; Caitlyn had never once seen him smile, but it was something approaching it. “I won’t take any more of your time. I do not require healing, and these people do.” He made to leave.

Anders was visibly surprised that this meeting had gone well—and relieved that she, rather than he, had been the one to have it. He smiled at her in pleasure as she returned to Merrill to pass the word.

* * *

The epidemic continued, and Caitlyn found herself understanding Anders’ earlier frustration even though the number of patients he was seeing for the flu began to level off, peak, and then, perhaps, decline. But the combination of the extremely potent lyrium and the two additional healers in the clinic—even if they were not the specialized, highly trained Healers he had wanted the Circle to release—helped them to finally begin to control the disease.

Caitlyn also realized that she did not mind the long hours in the clinic as long as she could be with him and Mal the whole time. That was somewhat unsettling; it seemed to imply that her previous irritation about his hours was indeed selfish. _He is a Healer,_ she told herself one night. _This is how it is for him during challenging times. I’m just glad that I can help him when these times occur, so I do get to be with him and Mal. I’m happier when we’re partners in anything that is highly important to one of us... and he seems to be as well._ That realization was exhilarating to her; it meant that she had a path to keep them happy. Merrill’s presence also helped; she did not know if the young elf and Carver really were corresponding, but even if Merrill was not “family,” she was certainly a friend.

Late one night, after Mal had already gone to sleep on a free patient bed and they had taken down the magical barrier, Caitlyn noticed that Anders was writing something on what appeared to be a calendar. He stared at it, then whooped.

“Good news?” she inquired.

He grinned. “I’ve been keeping notes on the number of flu patients each day since it began. That’s what this is. We’ve beaten it, love.”

“You had flu patients today,” she said.

“Yes, and I’m sure I will have some tomorrow, but I know the trajectory of epidemics. We’ve beaten it, based on the numbers I see.” He beamed at her. “We just need to keep doing what we have been doing, and it will subside quite soon.” He pumped a fist in the air and laughed. “With no Circle captives needed! Apostates and a Grey Warden!”

Caitlyn laughed triumphantly with him, and she was suddenly quite certain that he was in the mood to “celebrate” later tonight in bed. That, unfortunately, _had_ been a part of their relationship that had suffered for his—now their—long hours. They had tried to make up for it by cuddling and touching each other at every opportunity, but now, she was hungry for more—and he was too.

Of course, at that very minute, a hard, rather desperate knock sounded on the clinic door. Anders shook his head in mild exasperation, but the smile remained on his face—until he opened it and saw a young woman in the armor of a Templar trainee before them.

“Serah,” she exclaimed urgently, _“Warden._ Your lady wife and her friend need to leave quickly!”

Anders’ face fell and instantly became deadly serious. Caitlyn turned to the Templar trainee. “Who sent you here?” she demanded.

“Ser Varnell,” the young woman replied. “You must go! The Knight-Commander is sending a squad here. There was a claim that... that the Healers were performing _blood magic._ Of course, I know it can’t be true, but you know about....”

Caitlyn replied as Anders gave Merrill a repressive look, indicating to the elf to keep her mouth shut. This was no time for one of her innocent, naïve bursts of honesty. “Thank you for the warning,” she said. “I do know about the Knight-Commander and some of her favorites, who see blood magic everywhere there is a mage. _You_ should go too, so they don’t find you here!” She considered for a moment, then threw her a gold sovereign for her trouble.

The young Templar-in-training nodded quickly and scampered off. Anders turned to Caitlyn and Merrill with concern. “You should take Mal to the house too,” he urged. “Merrill, stay with her. Don’t go to the alienage yet. There are places you can hide in our house. You’re safer there than on the streets, in case those thugs got a description of you and try to arrest you there.”

Caitlyn instantly lifted her sleeping son from the bed and arranged him carefully but quickly in her arms, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. “What about you?” she said unhappily.

“I... need to be here,” he said, his voice pained. “Someone needs to give them a plausible excuse. If the clinic is empty, they might show up at the front door and demand to raid the house. I can handle them, love.”

“But what about Justice?”

“I will keep him from appearing unless it’s necessary to save my life. _I promise.”_

She believed him in that moment, and she saw his argument, but still, this was the very scene that she had not wanted to experience ever again. _I am leaving him,_ she thought. _I am leaving him, knowing that he is about to face hostile Templars. The last time this happened...._

She took a deep breath. _He is a Grey Warden and everyone in the city knows that he has the protection of the Hero of the Fifth Blight, one of the greatest living figures in Thedas. They can’t do a damn thing to him. Even if he really were a blood mage, he is beyond their authority._

“I’m storming the Gallows if you don’t come back,” she whispered to him as she left with Merrill and Mal. He stared back, a forced, rather bitter smile on his face as they left the clinic.

* * *

Caitlyn quickly put Mal to bed and urged Merrill to hide with Orana in the elven maid’s bedroom until Anders made his appearance. She was worried sick, and finally, her mother brought her a nightcap, a glass of fine Tevinter brandy. It settled her nerves a little bit, as did the affections of the mabari and the orange cat—who had readily accepted her as the mate of his master, or whatever a cat would consider its caretaker—but ultimately, she knew that only Anders’ appearance itself could assuage her terror.

At last he emerged from the basement. She rushed to greet him, throwing her arms around him as if she never wanted to let him go. They stumbled into the living room, where the animals remained, and sat down side by side on the divan, still holding each other around the waist.

“Even though I knew it was coming, I can still hardly believe it,” Anders finally said. He was livid. She glanced at his face and realized that she had never seen him this angry except when the spirit was controlling him. “The Knight-Commander, and probably the Grand Cleric too, interfered with a Healer who _they knew_ was trying to stop a disease outbreak! They _knew it,_ they had already denied me any Circle Healers, and then they did _this!”_

“Are Merrill and I going to be safe returning tomorrow?” she asked him. “Will you be able to control the outbreak if we aren’t there?”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I’m uneasy for both of you now,” he admitted, “but yes, it’s at a stage I can control. I don’t think I even convinced the Templars that  _I_ am not a blood mage. I showed them my arms—no scars and no wounds—but they know I’m a good Healer, so I don’t think that persuaded them. I think they only held back because they know I am a Grey Warden and they cannot publicly arrest me. I told them that it was a lie that I had any apostates or maleficarum helping me. They might have been happy to take Merrill, of course, but love... I think they were after you.”

Caitlyn’s gaze hardened. “Those  _bitches,”_ she seethed. “I’ve told you that I think Meredith suspects I am a mage. If she and Elthina have decided to have each other’s backs, seeing a threat—and after the audience I had with them, I’m sure they do see a threat—then of course she shared that information with Elthina. They were targeting me to remove that threat. You’re right.”

“They probably sent someone with a minor injury, or even paid someone off who really did have one, to be an informant. And you and Merrill would have treated a patient like that,” he growled.

“I kept my bandage covered. No one should have seen blood.”

“They wouldn’t have to. They see blood mages wherever there are apostates.”

She knew he was right, and it sickened, enraged, and terrified her. She tried to settle her own fears. “We have allies,” she reminded him, “and whatever their moral failings might otherwise be, they proved that they can be trusted when it comes to personal loyalty. We’ll get Meredith and Elthina someday. This, I swear.”

He nodded, at that moment believing it.

* * *

Even without any additional help, Anders did manage to corral the outbreak. At last a day came when no flu patients appeared in his clinic. Caitlyn was extremely proud of him and decided, in a flash of inspiration, to get him another gift: a thoroughly impractical gift, rather than the likes of a box of lyrium potions. He deserved something frivolous after working so hard.

_And yet,_ she thought as she gave the order to his favorite merchant in Lowtown,  _is this so frivolous?_

She kept the secret from him until finally, a couple of weeks later, a courier appeared at the door with a message for Caitlyn: The rare book that she had ordered had arrived.

“Let’s all go,” Caitlyn urged him, taking Mal’s hand to calm him down once the boy had started to bounce on the balls of his feet eagerly. Anders nodded at once, and they set out for the market.

The marketplace was bustling, so they had to wait until some of the hubbub died down and the merchant could attend to his “special” customer without being noticed by others in line. At last people began to depart to their homes for their midday meals, and Caitlyn took the vendor aside.

The seller slyly slipped her a parcel covered in brown sackcloth. “You’re going to get me arrested for heresy with another order like this one,” he said, but it was apparent that he was joking.

Still, Anders raised his eyebrows at her. “What book is this, exactly?” he asked as they headed back to Hightown. “One of the apocryphal canticles? A Black Chantry text? A tome about spirits of the Fade? I could tell that he was making a joke, but it must be  _ somewhat  _ controversial.”

“It’s not a canticle,” Caitlyn said, smirking. They reached the Hawke estate and slipped inside. “It’s not a research or religious text at all, and it certainly isn’t ‘heresy.’ But it’s _very_ hard to find, and I think you’ll enjoy it very much.”

Anders was very intrigued now. “Well, I assume you wouldn’t order an adult romance novel for me, so—” He broke off.

She pulled the cloth off the book, revealing its title, stamped in black on a dark blue cloth cover. It was evident that this was a very old book; the cloth was battered and the pages were aged.

“ _The Snow Queen of the Frostbacks_?” Anders read, his brow furrowing darkly. “That’s just a children’s folktale... and it vilifies magic. The evil barbarian mage queen steals children and freezes them, until the sister reaches her palace by reciting the Chant of Light and Orlesian Templars Smite their way through her evil, wicked snowflakes. I _hated_ that story....” As he spoke, however, the gears in his head suddenly clicked into place. Caitlyn would hate such a story too and would not give it to him as a gift. “Wait. This book is old. It’s not the version we know, is it?”

Caitlyn was grinning as he figured it out. She handed him the book and he opened it. It was illustrated with highly detailed woodcuts. “No, it isn’t,” she said. “The original version is Avvar and it’s very, very different. Father knew it, somehow. He didn’t have a book, but he told it to us in Ferelden years ago when we were children. Read it, Anders. It’s a quick read.”

Anders paged quickly through the book. As a children’s tale, it was a quick read even though the grammar was archaic. “It’s true,” he gasped. “In the Avvar tale, the snow queen was a victim, not a villain.” His eyes were wide with shock. “The old chieftain and his wife were afraid of their heiress because she was a mage, so they forced her to suppress her magic and hide what she was—and the blizzard on the mountain happened when she finally couldn’t control it any longer.”

“Keep reading,” she urged him, smiling.

He subsided, reading quickly through the book.

“I want to see,” Mal begged.

She smiled gently at him. “You’ll get to, sweetheart, once your father is finished.”

Anders reached the end of the story and looked up at Caitlyn, still astonished. “The ‘sister’ was originally the queen’s actual sister! And persuades her to accept being a mage and to use her powers for good.” He grinned wickedly at Caitlyn, passing the book back to her. “I like it. I see why the Chantry completely changed this story for general consumption. Thank you, love. I had no idea this existed, and I regret that. It’s a lovely tale.”

Caitlyn’s eyes widened as she paged through it. “Oh my, there’s even an Avvar ballad in it that she sings when she accepts what she is! Father didn’t know about that. That’s new to me too.”

Mal was pulling at her sleeve. “Let me see now,” he pleaded. “Please, Mamma. Please?”

Caitlyn handed the book to him. “Be careful,” she said. “The book is very old and rare.”

“I will,” he promised.

They sat down in the living room, where Baldwin and Pounce rested peacefully by the hearth. Mal opened the book in his lap. His parents watched, amused, as he stared at the pretty woodcuts, pretending to read....

“A l...oh...n... _long_ time ago... in... tuh...huh... _the...”_

Caitlyn and Anders looked up sharply.

“Moon...tay....”

“Mountains,” Caitlyn whispered, staring at her son in awe.

_ “Mountains!” _ Mal exulted.

“You’re reading,” Anders said, also in a whisper, his eyes wide.

Mal blinked as it dawned on him. “I’m reading!” he exclaimed, leaping up—but still remembering to be careful with the antique book. “I can read!”

Caitlyn got to her feet and hurried to his chair to give him a hug. Anders was close behind her. When she finally released the little boy, she noticed that two tear streaks had appeared on Anders’ face.

“You didn’t miss this,” she whispered to him in his ear, giving him a hug too. “You _saw_ this milestone, darling. And it was _your_ book, a nice story about a mage, that he read first.”

He choked back a sob as he pulled Caitlyn and Mal into an embrace.

* * *

Intensely proud of himself for learning how to read, and also genuinely liking the folktale, Mal cajoled his mother into singing the Avvar ballad for him. Caitlyn had not sung in a long, long time, and it brought back painful memories of Bethany and her lute... but perhaps it was time to put that in the past. Refusing to sing ever again would not honor her sister. Besides, Mal liked this story—no, loved it—and it was the exact type of message that she and Anders wanted to teach him, especially if he himself manifested magic in a few years.

Orana readily learned the song, although it was a mode of musical composition that was unfamiliar to her. As Caitlyn began to sing for him, with the elf strumming her lute, she did feel a moment of mourning and agony at first... but then, after that, it was almost like a release. _I hope that somewhere, Bethany is smiling in approval,_ she thought.

* * *

Of course, three days later, when Mal was incessantly singing the catchiest parts of the ballad, she wished that she had never taught it to him. That _bloody_ song....

“Here,” Caitlyn finally said. “Let’s go outside to play. You too, Baldwin.”

“And you, Pounce,” Anders said, picking up his cat. He breathed deeply as they ushered him outside, the mabari trotting behind them. He too was tired of the ballad.

As Mal played fetch with the dog, the Hawkes and Anders noticed several of their neighbors venturing out. Mal continued to sing the earworm of a ballad quietly.  _ I really hope no Templars pass by, _ Caitlyn thought,  _ or if they do, that they do not recognize it for what it is. _

A neighbor began to approach, and Caitlyn realized that it was Ser Marlein Selbrech. Unlike many wealthy part-time residents of Hightown who had foreign titles—mostly Orlesian or Tevinter, it seemed—she was actually an aristocrat of Kirkwall, a landed knight. She had welcomed the family to their new home (or old, in Leandra’s case) and had expressed approval of Anders even knowing that he was a mage and had been an apostate when he had fathered Mal. Since harmless apostates did not seem to concern Ser Marlein, Caitlyn wanted to reveal herself to the woman when the time was right, and she had hopes that Ser Marlein might turn out to be a noble supporter of her ambition someday.

“Ah,” said the lady as she drew near. “I know that tune.” When Anders looked up in surprise, she gave a quick nod. “Oh yes, I have the original story too. My daughter went through a phase a couple of years ago with it.... She even wanted to be a mage so that she could make it snow whenever she wanted.” Ser Marlein’s face suddenly became serious as she looked at Mal, who was innocently playing with a stick. “I... suppose he actually could be one. I....” She sighed, staring at the little family, a pained look coming over her face as she realized that it could be torn apart again someday. “Something needs to change.”

In that moment, Caitlyn decided to take a bold risk. “Perhaps that change could happen sooner than you think,” she ventured. “There are those of us who have strong interests in seeing the change take place. We just need strength of numbers.”

The lady considered Caitlyn’s words before nodding. “We should keep up an acquaintance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU is _not_ for readers who approve of Grand Cleric Elthina, and although that's going to be more important in the sequel, this chapter is the clearest indication of it thus far. Hawke’s maneuverings prior to this chapter _could_ have been explained purely on the basis of a quid pro quo, her wanting a Grand Cleric who owed her for when she makes her own move for power—but there is more to it now, after this chapter. My opinion of Elthina has radically evolved since I first played _DA2_ last year and is extremely negative now, and this AU’s depiction of her is not going to get better in the sequel.
> 
> Yes, somehow, even in Thedas, families with small children have to deal with some form of you-know-what song. This story needed a _bit_ of levity, I think. (And I am indeed aware that the Hans Christian _Andersen_ version is actually the original, which is so much meta irony that I’m just going to quit this while I… think… I’m ahead.)
> 
> The final chapter of this story is going to be _Legacy_ —and another developmental milestone for Mal.


	29. Fear the Voice in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter is _Legacy_. It's a little AU, because I can’t see the Warden-Commander sending only the Hawke sibling on the mission, and it's even stranger for something involving Tainted dwarves and a Warden prison to include non-Warden sibling and no Wardens at all unless you take Anders.
> 
> Song is “A Voice in the Dark” by Blind Guardian.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading, reviewing, kudoing, and following this story!

_Several months later._

Caitlyn reflected on what had happened in her life since the beginning of the year. Quite a lot had changed in that space of time. They had finally obtained the Amell mansion—now the Hawke mansion—and settled in. Carver had become a Grey Warden and had returned to Ferelden to serve. The family had received several letters from him since then. She and Anders had finally had their long-delayed wedding. The flu epidemic had occurred, provoking their first serious dispute since they had gotten back together, and Mal had learned how to read.

_Since then, we haven’t fought about anything,_ she thought happily as she browsed the Hightown market.  _We’ve disagreed, but nothing has ever escalated into a fight._ It was gratifying to have the confidence that perhaps she had finally resolved enough of her emotional troubles that she could have a happy, successful relationship. When all was well between them, he made her very happy, and she knew that she did the same for him. Nothing could ever undo the pain and losses they had suffered, but the closeness and confidence that they once again shared moved those sad, dark memories out of the forefront of their minds and gave them hope for the future again.

Mal was advancing rapidly as a reader. It was not wholly surprising to either of his parents—Caitlyn because she had known for most of his life that he had a gift for language, and Anders because he was incapable of being objective about the child he had been kept from for so long—but it was still a pleasure to observe. He would be quite a scholar someday, Caitlyn guessed, and she was determined to give him new material to read as often as she could. A new book for him was what she was looking to buy today, in fact. He still preferred to spend most of his days at Anders’ clinic, but Anders was keeping normal hours now that no public-health crisis was ongoing, so she cheerfully anticipated presenting him with his new book in a few hours.

She finally selected a collection of short stories compiled by a scholar from the University of Orlais, translated into the King’s Tongue. Some of the tales were a little mature for a child who was not quite five, but Mal had already experienced more than a small child should have. It was too late to shelter him, Caitlyn thought with a pang of sadness as she purchased the book.  _But Anders and I can try to protect him from other things in the future,_ she thought.

* * *

That evening, as they were all enjoying family time and Mal was enjoying his new book, a thump sounded on the front door. It was much heavier than a polite knock, and it sounded like something large and heavy slamming against it. Anders and Caitlyn looked up sharply, their faces filling with alarm. Leandra surprisingly kept her cool and moved calmly beside Mal on the divan as his parents rose to their feet and hurried behind Orana toward the door. They picked up their staves from the hallway.

As they neared the door, they heard grunts and mutterings from the other side of the door. There was another heavy thump against either the door or the side of the house. Caitlyn heard the patter of feet and turned around in the hall. Baldwin was following behind her.

“All right, I suppose you can come,” she allowed the dog.

Anders looked back and noticed that Ser Pounce-a-Lot was making for the basement door instead. That gave him an idea.

“Orana,” he said quietly to the maid, “Cait and I will take care of this. Go back to the sitting room. Be prepared to take Mistress Hawke and Mal to the basement and open the trapdoor to Darktown, just in case....” He trailed off darkly.

The maid gaped at him but did not question the order. With a frightened peep, she backed away and scurried back to the room. They exchanged another glance and readied their staves in hand.

Caitlyn took a deep breath, readied her magic, and called out, “Who is there?”

There was no response but another grunt. Anders’ face contorted with disgust and concern. He gripped his staff harder. Thin bolts of purplish lightning began to crackle around the globe.

“State who you are and what business you have at the Hawke manor!” Caitlyn called through the door, exasperated.

_“The Hawke!”_ Several voices joined in that call, and the thumps recommenced. It sounded now like some of them were being made by warhammers and mauls rather than body-slamming. That infuriated Caitlyn.

“All right, that’s it,” she snarled, jerking the door open.

A group of dwarves clustered on the doorstep, but something was wrong with them. Their eyes were glazed over, and several of them had eyes that were completely milky white. Their skin was blotchy and bruised, and their faces were slack.

The dwarf at the head of the group had tumbled face-first onto the carpet when Caitlyn had popped the door open suddenly, but he was back on his feet quickly.  _“The blood of the Hawke!”_ the dwarf declared, trying to paw at her.

Caitlyn shouted in outrage and flung a blast of deadly cold at him, freezing him solid—but there were half a dozen others behind him, most of them now moaning about “the Hawke” and “the blood of the Hawke.”

“The blood,” one dwarf said, drooling, as he pointed in the direction of the sitting room. “The blood of the Hawke.”

_He is pointing at Mal,_ she thought in fury. With that, she blasted this one down as well and turned her attention to the crowd.

“The voice,” another dwarf was saying to Anders, his eyes solid white and his jaw slack. “You hear it? I smell the darkness in you, yes.”

_The voices of the remaining Old Gods?_ Anders thought as he cast spells to kill the dwarves. They were obviously ghouls, and—yes—he could indeed sense the Taint in them, much as that thought disgusted him. With the defeat of Archdemon Urthemiel, darkspawn and ghouls might already be hearing Razikale or Lusacan. But wasn’t that “the song” rather than “the voice”?

Caitlyn was felling dwarf ghouls with one entropy and frost spell after another—she didn’t, obviously, want to use fire indoors—and Anders was doing his part with lightning. The mabari knocked them over and wrestled their weapons out of their hands to give his mistress and her mate easier targets. He was clearly intelligent enough to identify the Taint by smell and to know that this was not the kind of victim that he should bite. Anders would have considered taking one of the ghouls captive temporarily to question it, but these seemed to be too far gone for anything of value to come of that. They babbled about “the Hawke” and “the blood of the Hawke,” which was extremely unsettling, but they had nothing else significant to say.

A stream of blood struck the carpet. Anders glanced around sharply, fearing that a ghoul had given Caitlyn an open wound that would let in the Taint—that was how Malcolm had been Tainted in a fight with ghouls—but then a powerful blast of magic knocked the last surviving ghoul, a dual-dagger-wielding dwarf in the uniform of a Carta officer, onto its back. Caitlyn breathed heavily and clenched her fist as blood streamed red down her wrist. The dwarf screamed in pain as Caitlyn drained life from him via the wound that—Anders gasped in shock as he realized it—she had given herself.

The dwarf breathed his last, expiring with a gurgle. Caitlyn snarled in anger and reached in her pocket for a piece of cloth for a bandage, but Anders was faster. He sent a powerful healing spell at her, frowning as he did.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he chastised. _I thought your line regarding blood magic was to use your blood to fuel regular spells or to cast the protective wards again,_ he thought in dismay. _That was a blood magic spell in its own right._ But he knew that scolding her right now was inappropriate and would only anger her.

“Yes, I did,” she replied as her skin knit back together. “That thing was fast. A trained assassin, I would guess.” She sneered at the pile of dead bodies. “And look at this mess! Ghouls, I presume?”

He nodded. “Don’t touch them. I’ll move them into a pile and we’ll burn them together.”

As he dragged the dead bodies into a heap in the street, Caitlyn examined the carpet for bloodstains or saliva. She had tried to kill cleanly, but it would probably need to be torn out and replaced anyway—at least, up to the point that the first dwarf, the one who had gotten farthest into the house, had fallen. It exasperated her.

Anders threw the last body into the pile and cast a fireball at it. Caitlyn walked over and sent a bigger, stronger one.

“This is disturbing,” she remarked to him in a quiet voice.

“Yes, it is. Do you have any ideas about what it might mean?”

“I have a very tentative, preliminary one,” she said. “It may be completely wrong, but right now I would guess that this has something to do with the work that Father did for the Grey Wardens before I was born.”

“Blood magic wards.”

She nodded. “They wanted ‘blood of the Hawke.’ They were Tainted, but they looked like Carta to me, so they shouldn’t have been in the darkspawn-infested parts of the Deep Roads. The Carta is mostly surface-based. They came in contact with the Taint somehow, obviously, and also got exposed to ‘blood of the Hawke’ or else they wouldn’t be able to sense it. I’m guessing that, unfortunately, they came in contact with whatever it was that the Wardens hired Father to ward.”

“I’ll write to the Warden-Commander about this,” Anders said, “and you should probably write to your brother. They were able to detect ‘blood of the Hawke’ in Mal too—”

“Bastards,” she seethed angrily. That detail enraged her more than any other.

“—and that means that they could detect it in Carver.”

She was silent as she contemplated that. “I am glad that he is surrounded by other Grey Wardens,” she confessed. “You’re right. He may already have been attacked. We do need to find out.”

Mal, Leandra, and Orana emerged from the basement trembling when Caitlyn and Anders pulled the door. “It’s taken care of,” Caitlyn assured them. “Everything is fine now.”

“Maker’s breath,” Leandra fretted. “This is not the Kirkwall I remember as a girl. People aren’t even safe in their own homes in Hightown!”

_I bet the city is no different—minus, perhaps, the detail of Tainted Carta dwarves—but you just didn’t know about criminal gangs,_ Caitlyn thought cynically, but she kept that to herself.

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Anders promised. “We think it is Grey Warden-related.”

Leandra’s eyes grew wide. “Then Carver—”

“Mother, Carver is in a fortified castle,” Caitlyn assured her, “surrounded by Wardens. I’m going to write to him, though, to see if he has experienced anything like this in Ferelden.” She turned to Mal, whose eyes were wide. “You did great!”

“I saw you and Father casting spells,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “We kept everyone safe.”

“Are there any more of those things?”

Anders sighed; it was best to be honest. “We don’t know, Mal,” he said, “but if there are, your mother and I will do exactly the same to protect you. You’re safe. Everyone is safe here.”

* * *

Carver sent his reply a few weeks later, included in a parcel with a letter from Warden-Commander Cousland for Anders as well.

  
  


_As a matter of fact,_ Cousland wrote,  _we were attacked at Vigil’s Keep by Tainted dwarves the very day that your letter and Serah Hawke’s letter arrived—a bit later than your attack, of course, but supportive of the theory that you and Serah Hawke articulated, if the work that Messere Hawke did for the Grey Wardens took place in the Free Marches. Our attackers were a mixed band of both former Carta and outcasts from Orzammar who fled after their candidate for the dwarven throne was killed. These unfortunates did not have any memories of their lives, however; I recognized them by the heraldic symbol they still bore on their armor._

_Warden Carver knew that his father had performed a service for the Grey Wardens years ago, and that it involved a ward that he later adapted to protect the family home, but Warden Carver did not know any more than that about the magic and did not believe that it could have been blood magic. Evidently it was, since your lady confirms that fact._

_The attackers here were also demanding “blood of the Hawke,” but we were able to take a captive, who was marginally more forthcoming before we gave him a merciful death. In the midst of mindless blubbering and repetition of that demand, the ghoul managed to declare that a figure named Corypheus was their leader and that he wanted Warden Carver’s blood. As I’m sure you know from your extensive study of languages in the Circle, this is a Tevinter word that means “conductor.” Our working theory in Ferelden is that this “Corypheus” is a talking darkspawn, a disciple of the Architect who was never killed, and who has somehow devised a way to “conduct” the Taint through those he infects. As you may recall from the missive included with Warden Avernus’s potion, I was concerned about this very outcome. We theorize that he wants the wards that Messere Hawke cast taken down, for some malign reason. Warden Carver does not know what the Marcher Wardens hired his father to secure; if your lady or your mother-in-law has any information about that, it might be useful._

_I have made plans to send Warden Carver and another Warden, a fairly recent recruit named Darrian, to Kirkwall. Because of the strong probability that this Corypheus can manipulate minds through the Taint, I have urged them, and also urge you, to include trusted non-Wardens in the scouting mission as a majority, in case the Wardens have to be subdued for everyone’s good. If there are too many ghouls or other dangers, please leave at once and gather greater strength of numbers. I do not want anyone to die._

  
  


Anders passed this note to Caitlyn, who had just finished reading her brother’s very short letter expressing his intention to come to Kirkwall soon with Warden Darrian, an elf who apparently had some family ties to Highever. She read Cousland’s letter with growing alarm in her face. Finally she returned the letter to him and gripped his shoulders firmly.

“You are not going on this,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Oh, I’m not?”

“No. You are not.  _ I  _ am, and Carver is. You are staying here with your son. You read yourself what your commander says about too many Wardens in the party—and frankly, with Justice as an extra variable, I don’t like the idea at all.”

Anders wanted to continue arguing with her, but with it laid out like that, he could see her point. However, there was still a concern for him. “What about healing?” he said. “You know one spell, but will that be enough?”

She considered. “I’ll ask Merrill to come along as well. Carver would like that, I expect. She knows only the same one I do, but we’d be healing injuries, so we would not need your full training.”

He hated the idea of her going on a dangerous adventure, but she was more than capable of taking care of herself, and she was making legitimate points. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll make sure to give the other Joining potion ingredients I have to your brother or the other Warden, though, just in case.”

She nodded. “And, for the record, I have no idea what Father secured for the Wardens. We can ask Mother, but I doubt he told her. It’s probably a Grey Warden secret. This ‘Corypheus’ must think it’s something he can use, though.”

Unfortunately, Leandra knew no more than Caitlyn or Carver about what her late husband had done for the Grey Wardens twenty-six years ago. “They would not let him keep notes about it,” she said, “and he never wanted to talk about it.”

“Well, it _was_ blood magic,” Caitlyn said. “Perhaps he felt guilty and just wanted to move on.”

“It’s come back to haunt us, though,” Anders pointed out. “I wish the Wardens weren’t so secretive. They don’t even share among themselves—so when something fails, we’re left with limited information about what we need to do.”

* * *

Leandra was tearfully eager to see her son again, even though it was for a deadly serious reason and was far from a social visit. He was pleased to see them too, diligently though he tried to hide it, and was happy to indulge his nephew as Mal read one of his books aloud to show off.

“When is the next big milestone expected?” he said in an undertone to Anders and Caitlyn once the child had scampered off to play with the cat.

Anders tensed. “What milestone?” he said defensively.

Carver shrugged. “Whatever a child does after learning to read. Writing? I don’t know.”

Anders let out his breath. “Whenever he does something significant again, I won’t miss it, at least.”

Caitlyn had observed the exchange with interest. As soon as she had Anders alone, she asked him: “What was that moment of tension with my brother about?”

“I thought he was baiting me,” he replied. “I thought he was mocking the prospect of Mal showing magic. And I’m still not entirely sure that he wasn’t.”

She placed her arms gently around his waist. “Carver is different, Anders. He might have done that five years ago... Maker’s blood, we’re approaching six from the date you first arrived in Lothering... but after everything that happened to this family, he wouldn’t mock that now.”

Anders was silent for a moment and then nodded. “You’re probably right. I’m just sensitive to it.” He gazed to the side, where Mal was playing with the animals in the next room over. “The idea of losing him... of that bastard who stabbed the little girl in the back, or whoever it was that destroyed Karl, taking _him_ away....” A momentary bluish-white crackle of light flashed down his face.

“It _will not happen,”_ she said, fixing her gaze resolutely with his, her teeth clenched. “We are his _parents._ We will not let it happen. Your father was a bad parent, Anders—but my parents were not like that, and _we_ are not like that.”

“You’re right,” he said. “If we have to, we’ll die to protect him.”

“No,” she said. “That would _lose_ him his protection. If he is a mage, we’ll _kill_ to protect him.”

Anders was surprised at her dark vehemence, but of course she was right.  _What good could we do him dead? That’s a meaningless sentiment. She is absolutely right._

In his mind, he sensed that Justice agreed.

* * *

The other Warden, Darrian Tabris, was an alienage elf who chose to stay in the Hanged Man upon arrival in Kirkwall rather than imposing on the Hawke family. Caitlyn and Anders met him the next day, accompanied by Carver. Varric and Merrill were also expected to be at the pub—Varric because he basically lived there, Merrill at Carver’s invitation to hear about the planned excursion.

“You’re not trying to set her up with Warden Darrian, are you?” Caitlyn asked him along the way.

Carver glared at his sister. _“No._ Merrill and I have continued to correspond and I’ve been looking forward to seeing her—but even if we hadn’t, I wouldn’t try to ‘set her up’ with anyone. She’s a strong person and can choose for herself.”

“I’m glad you see that now at last,” she replied.

Carver suppressed a snarl. “As for Darrian, if he were ‘in the market,’ I’d probably have better luck setting him up with Anders if he were single.”

Anders and Caitlyn both glared at Carver, who looked insufferably smug. “All right, you got your moment of revenge on me with that,” she said hotly. “But he is _not_ single, and you say your friend is not ‘in the market’ anyway.”

“Look,” Carver said, his voice still grouchy but suddenly serious, “don’t bring this subject up to him, all right? I hate telling tales on someone, but I guess you need to know this about his past. Darrian lurked, forgotten, in a secret cell in Howe’s basement in Denerim for months, even after the Warden-Commander believed she had freed all the living prisoners toward the end of the Blight. He survived on rats, bugs, and the water that dripped from the ceiling.”

Caitlyn and Anders stopped cold and stared. Carver continued mercilessly.

“Howe didn’t actually imprison him. Howe did have him fed—so Howe’s death actually made his circumstances _worse,_ though that was no fault of Cousland’s, since she didn’t know he was there—but he was actually imprisoned by guards of Bann Vaughan Kendells. He was locked up for trying to save his bride from being raped and murdered by the bann on their wedding day.”

Caitlyn’s hand found its way to her open mouth. Anders placed a hand on her waist to comfort her, but he too was deeply disturbed.

“And he failed, by the way,” Carver said bitterly. “So, no. He’s not interested in matchmaking. He got out when the Crown took over the Denerim arling and cleaned out the entire estate, then disappeared until he turned up at Vigil’s Keep asking to join the Wardens.”

Caitlyn and Anders were visibly horrified. When she was finally able to compose herself, she said, quietly, “Thank you for telling us.”

* * *

Warden Darrian still showed signs of his starvation in the cell, even though he had been free since 9:31 and had eaten like a Grey Warden for a couple of months. He was quite thin for a Warden and his eyes were still a bit sunken. His black hair was also thin. However, he declared that he was willing and able to see the expedition through, and he could wield double daggers expertly. Although he was dour and bitter, he seemed interested in seeing the rest of the world, or perhaps anything outside Ferelden, where he had been mistreated so terribly. Caitlyn found herself thinking of Fenris. _I hope Fenris finds a purpose in his life beyond killing Danarius,_ she thought. _Darrian has become a Grey Warden and seems satisfied with that._

Varric and Merrill eagerly signed up for the expedition. Varric, indeed, knew of a Carta base in the Vimmark Mountains that might bear fruit.

“It’s likely to be heavily guarded, and I expect they have brontos,” he warned, “and if this Corypheus character got his claws into that branch of the Carta, the Taint is also going to be there.”

“If it is, then that’s just another reason why we need to clean it out,” Carver said roughly, adjusting his greatsword on his back.

Varric raised his eyebrows. “Well, Junior, I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic, but you do realize that if Anders doesn’t go, there are only two Grey Wardens along.”

“Anders is _not_ going,” Caitlyn insisted. “We needed a Warden for the Deep Roads expedition because they can sense darkspawn in advance. We already have two for this. Merrill and I know how to heal injuries now. Anders belongs at home. If more of these Tainted dwarves tried to attack the house, sensing Hawke blood in Mal, Mother and Orana could not defend him.”

“And Aveline is Captain now, but you know, Isabela or Fenris _could....”_

“Isabela, baby-sitting a child?” Caitlyn laughed.

“I _will not_ put him under the influence of a magic-hater,” Anders said darkly at the same time. “Caitlyn is right. I’m staying at home.”

Varric nodded, accepting their decision. “Very well. I guess we should all start planning this.”

* * *

The group agreed to set out on the day after First Day. The dead of winter wasn’t a great time for a hike through the desert, but that was when the Tainted dwarves had attacked, so they had little choice. At least it was warmer in the Free Marches than it would have been in southern Ferelden.

Caitlyn woke up the morning they were to set out feeling uneasy and tense. She knew that it was possible people, including herself, could die, but she had faced down death many times before in Kirkwall and had become somewhat inured to that. Her unease was of a different sort, she thought: a powerful, if indescribable, sensation that _something bad would come of this_. Although she and Anders had enjoyed themselves thoroughly the night before, even her dreams in the Fade had been unsettling in a vague way. She had wandered paths in the Fade all alone, with a heavy crown of black metal on her head and a strangely distorted vast green gash in the sky. At one point along the interminable trek, she had seen a translucent vision in the swirling Fade-mist of Anders fighting a vast shadow and being killed by a sharp tendril of it. Then, just as horror had almost overtaken her, the vision had shifted to depict another man in his place, whose identity was not clear to her in the fuzzy Fade. Mal, her mother, and Carver were nowhere to be found, and as she had turned back to look for them, she realized that her path had left bloody footprints. She had looked down at her hands and realized that blood was there too—and it had dripped from the crown she wore, which seemed to be the source.

_It’s just a dream,_ Caitlyn thought as she moved about the house to get ready.  _I dreamed it because I am nervous, and it exacerbated that. The crown probably means that I am still scared of what I may have to do to become Viscountess—or after, if I succeed. The rest of it is just general fears. We’ll be fine._ She stepped over to the window and gazed out at the sky.  _No green gash. It was just the Fade. It’s not real._

When the time came for her and Carver to depart and meet the others in Lowtown, she still hugged her mother, Mal, and Anders very tightly, feeling a tension in her chest.

“Hey,” Anders said gently, “you’ll be fine, love. I have faith in you.” He tilted her head upward to gaze into her eyes—but only for a moment. In the next, he pulled her close and kissed her deeply.

They broke apart, their eyes fluttering open again. He smiled at her and gave her another, final hug. “Go get them.”

* * *

“What a desolate, miserable stretch of land,” Caitlyn remarked as the group reached the barren, cold Vimmark Mountain region where the Carta base was to be found. “Before my family moved to Lothering, we lived near the Frostbacks, and I remember it. Those mountains were beautiful. Verdant. Snow-capped.”

Merrill looked equally unhappy. “The Sundermount is nice,” she said wistfully.

Varric exchanged wry looks with Warden Darrian. “This _is_ a desert,” the dwarf said.

“How can the Carta even get _supplies_ brought to them out here?”

“No one wants to defy the Carta, that’s how. Ah... there’s our base.”

The wood-and-stone structure loomed ahead, partially obscured by fine dust in the air. Caitlyn scowled. She and Merrill cast protective bubbles around themselves as the others lifted handkerchiefs to their noses and mouths to avoid breathing it in.

At last they reached the base—and were almost immediately attacked.

“They’re ghouls!” Carver exclaimed as he cleaved a dwarf in half. “The _guards_ are Tainted!”

“That’s not good,” Varric muttered as he sent bolt after bolt into them.

Even after the initial guards went down, they continued to have to fight their way through the Carta fortress. There were indeed brontos, and the large, aggressive beasts with thick hides proved a challenge to put down. Even worse, though, was the fact that every single Carta dwarf that they encountered was a ghoul—and most of them were braying for “blood of the Hawke” for Corypheus.

“I’m glad you lot figured out that it has to do with what dear old dad did, because otherwise it would make no sense that they’d want Hawke’s blood,” Varric remarked in a wry aside. “Everybody knows she’s no virgin. If we didn’t know what it was about, I’d assume they really wanted Junior’s.”

“Oh really? Well, I’m not one either, dwarf,” Carver growled.

Caitlyn rolled her eyes as Varric and Warden Darrian tried to suppress their amusement at having so easily baited him. Merrill, on the other hand, gave him a sharp glare that brought some abashment to his face.

During another brief respite from fighting, Varric picked up a sheaf of papers and paged through it. “I liked these guys better before they got religion... or... whatever this is,” he muttered. “Look at this!” He showed the journal to the others. “This is insane.”

They read quickly through it. Initially the notebook was filled with business dealings and transactions. At a point, however, the writing changed, becoming praises of “the Great One, Corypheus” for helping them to “see the light.”  _“Insane” is a good word for this,_ Caitlyn thought.

An arrow thudded into a post beside Varric. With that, the team engaged the next round of ghouls that had become aware that their base was infiltrated.

At last, the fortress was empty. Varric had had to fight and kill the dwarf who had crafted his unique weapon, Gerav, now become a ghoul. At last, the inventor had been slain by his own invention. It was apparent to everyone in the group that Varric was taking this hard, though he was trying to rally himself to feign indifference. Neither Merrill nor either of the Hawkes knew what to say to him, but curiously, the person who barely knew him at all, Warden Darrian, sat down beside him and said something under his breath that appeared to provide some comfort to Varric. He nodded and rose to his feet, slapping the elf on his back. “Right you are,” he said. He turned to the corpse of Gerav.  _“Atrast vala,_ you old bastard. You didn’t deserve this.”

The Carta boss, Rhatigan, also lay dead, his body looted. Caitlyn had picked up a new staff from him, which had belonged to her father. A dwarf would have had no reason to hold a mage’s staff, but apparently it could be used in conjunction with blood to break through Malcolm Hawke’s wards and destroy whatever they were holding back. That was the plan they agreed upon: destroy the thing rather than attempt to secure it. Whatever reason the previous generation of Grey Wardens had had for their decision, current events had proven it to be a poor one.

Caitlyn and the others entered a long, winding underground passage that maps in the hideout indicated would lead to the Grey Warden fortress that her father had warded. As she carried her new staff in hand, she could not help but think that she had, somehow, been manipulated into killing the Carta in order to obtain exactly this “key.”  _But by whom?_ she thought.  _And why?_ She dismissed the nagging concern as lingering residue from her dream.

* * *

Caitlyn and Carver stared at each other in undisguised horror. “Father bound _demons_ with his wards?” she whispered, her face contorted with anguish.

Carver was staring unhappily at her. He too was disappointed, but she was taking it harder.

“I knew they were blood magic... I’ve done some of that myself... but using bound demons to protect whatever is in this fortress?” She gazed at the spot where her father’s magical barrier had formerly glimmered. “I thought I knew you, Father.”

Merrill stood back stonily, evidently disapproving of Caitlyn’s disapproval, and neither Varric nor Darrian had anything to say to her either. But Carver stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder in a surprisingly gentle gesture.

“He did it because these Wardens ordered him to,” he said. “He had no choice. This is how he earned the money to take care of Mother and our family.” He stared at his sister’s face. “He never had anything to do with demons afterward. That tells you all you need to know about what he thought about it.”

She sighed. “You’re right, I suppose,” she acknowledged, “but... it still hurts.” She gazed again at the empty spot. “I remember when he told Bethany and me about blood magic and warned about how it became easier to justify moving one’s personal ‘line’ again and again ‘for the greater good’ once one starts. He knew. He was speaking from personal experience.”  _And I have already moved my line,_ she thought, remembering Anders’ clear disapproval of her blood spell the night that the Carta dwarves attacked the house.  _I’ve taken a step in that direction myself._

“Right. I wasn’t there for that, of course, but he would’ve been. And that’s better than some self-righteous priest who’s never faced a hard moral choice in her life lecturing about it, isn’t it? It was real when he said it.”

She was surprised; when had Carver become so... well... thoughtful? She managed a sad smile for him. “Yes. It was real.  _He_ was real,” she said. “A real person with flaws, like all of us.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Let’s move on.”

* * *

They continued through the fortress, encountering darkspawn, demons, and shades along the way. A ghoul who had once been a Grey Warden, Larius, seemed to dog their footsteps, offering warnings and remarks, but not assisting them. Caitlyn was tiring of it after the second encounter. This was apparently a Warden who had gone to his Calling but had not had the death in battle that he had been led to expect. She was inclined to give it to him now if she just could get the chance. This was sad and disgraceful for a Grey Warden.

_Maker, let the potion that Anders and Carver took protect them from this,_ she prayed.  _Even if it makes them more suggestible, anything is better than this._

As if in cruel, mocking answer to her silent prayer, Carver and Darrian began to wince and scowl. “I hear a voice in my head,” Carver said, his eyes wide with horror.

“So do I,” complained the elf Warden. He glowered balefully down the hall. “It’s coming from deep in the fortress.”

“One thing seems unfortunately clear,” Caitlyn said, her skin prickling at the very idea of what she was about to say, but it still had to be said. “I don’t think the Fereldan Warden-Commander’s theory of Corypheus is quite right. From what we’ve seen so far—especially the ancient notes from early Wardens—it’s all too apparent that Corypheus is an equal of the Architect, not a disciple of him, and that _he himself_ is locked up in this prison. And he used the Taint to manipulate those dwarves.”

They were all silent, agreeing in unspoken assent with her grim conclusion. “Do you think,” Darrian began, “that there really could’ve been seven ancient magisters, and the Architect was one, and this Corypheus is another?”

Carver and Caitlyn shuddered. Varric also looked troubled by that, though it had less meaning to Merrill. “I hope not,” Caitlyn burst out. “The Architect couldn’t control the minds of his disciples, according to Anders. That was why they had warring factions. Corypheus,  _whatever_ he is, can. If anything, he’s stronger!”

“Maybe we should just call this off,” suggested Varric. “The plan was to take down the wards and kill the thing that the old Wardens protected, but perhaps the plan needs to change now.”

Caitlyn considered that for a brief moment before shaking her head. “No, we can’t do that. It’s clear that Corypheus was using the Carta to get a Hawke captured so that he could be freed, but if we back away, the attacks will continue until he  _does_ get his sacrifice. We need to give him what he wants and then strike him down immediately—be rid of the threat for good.” She took a deep breath. “Anders killed the Architect. I think that between the five of us, we can handle this.”

* * *

Caitlyn and her team gazed around the ancient ruins at the lowest level of the structure. A strange greenish mist surrounded everything, and Caitlyn felt half in the Fade. This was a place of powerful, ancient magic. It was night now, which provided an additional sinister, foreboding aura.

Varric was taking in the family history that he had uncovered here, the body of Tethras Garen, the son of the Paragon who had been the founding ancestor of Varric’s house. He had been accused of a murder that he had not committed—and after decades, was now exonerated of the crime.

“The Warden-Commander knows the king of Orzammar,” Warden Darrian offered. “A delegation of Wardens could go to Orzammar with the evidence and have it entered in the Shaperate....”

Varric breathed heavily as he picked up the Legionnaires’ journals. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “I’ve always been a surfacer myself. I have no interest in living underground. But... maybe... for history.”

Caitlyn sensed that he wanted to be alone, so she stepped aside with her brother and Merrill following close behind. Along the way, she had collected ancient artifacts of the Old God Dumat, because they were magical and historical—but here, in this primeval, highly magical part of the fortress, she had found an ancient altar to Dumat where the objects could be placed. _What is such a thing doing in a Grey Warden fortress?_ she thought. _The Wardens were founded to destroy the corrupted Old Gods! Dumat was the Archdemon of the First Blight. Did the earliest Wardens try to appease him instead of killing him? Or did they build their fortress on top of an earlier Tevinter site, perhaps?_ She approached the altar and considered it. Dumat was dead; the Hero of the First Blight, whose identity was now lost to history, had slain him. But perhaps there was magic in the site that the ancient magister-priests had placed there. Perhaps she would get some kind of reward....

“You’d better not do what it looks like you’re thinking of doing,” Carver warned.

She blinked and came to her senses. “You’re right,” she said, raising her staff. A ball of raw magical force formed in her hand, and she flung it at the altar.

Over half a dozen Fade creatures erupted from the altar and began to attack. Distracted by the commotion, Varric and Darrian hurried over to engage the demons and shades. As Caitlyn sent blasts of magic at them, she felt exhilarated. Picking a fight for no reason—she knew she could have just done nothing—was dangerous, but if she had placed the offerings, she would only have appeased these demons. Defying them made her feel better—about her father and about herself.

* * *

They were back inside another part of the fortress, having failed to find the imprisoned Corypheus in the ancient level. The ghoul Larius was there again—but now he was accompanied by a Grey Warden mage, Janeka, and three other Wardens in her command.

Caitlyn had had enough of both of them already. Janeka was raving like a lunatic, declaring that the Wardens could control Corypheus—even though the ancient notes they had found indicated that other Wardens had tried and failed—but although Larius was taking the sensible position that the creature should be released and slain at once because the wards were failing, he had thus far been of no help to her and she did not particularly trust a ghoul. Their minds could turn quickly, and Larius was under Corypheus’s influence too even though he was trying to fight it.

_I can’t just slay both of them, though,_ she thought.  _I need a guide to take me to Corypheus. I have to pick one._

“You are Hawke,” Janeka said. She glared menacingly at Larius. “Do you realize that this man—while he _was_ still a man—was the Grey Warden who ordered your father to serve him or he would never see his woman and child again?”

Caitlyn stiffened. A wave of anger washed over her, saturated with dark and sad memories of Anders’ four-year absence from her and  _their_ child.  _Anders,_ she thought, as though she could reach him through her thoughts.  _If some Taint-addled bastard had issued an ultimatum like that to Anders...._

“That’s rich, coming from the Warden who corrupted the Carta and set them on the Hawkes.”

The speaker was Varric. He was glaring at the middle-aged mage, his mechanical crossbow pointed right at her neck.

“Varric? How do you....” Caitlyn began to say.

He sneered at Janeka. “It’s bloody obvious. I’m not saying that one”—he scoffed at Larius—“isn’t a right bastard, but this one has a far higher body count. Dozens of dwarves dead, and for what? You could’ve just sent a note to Hawke, you know.” Bitter, dark sarcasm filled his words.

Janeka gripped her staff menacingly. “It was necessary to draw the Hawkes here so that Corypheus can be set free!”

Caitlyn had had enough. She didn’t like this choice, but ultimately it was the only possible one she could make now. “No, it was not necessary,” she said. “Larius blackmailed and extorted my father, but he dealt honestly with him and upheld the bargain. My friend is right. You destroyed dozens of people to  _trick_ me, and in the process, you threatened the life of my little son, you bitch!”

With that, the battle was joined. Unfortunately the three Wardens who were with Janeka fought beside her, and had to be slain too, but Caitlyn found that she did not care. Their leader hadn’t forced them to do that. They could have switched sides instead of taking up arms against fellow Grey Wardens Carver and Darrian. The Order was better off without that sort of person. Nonetheless it was visibly painful for her brother and his comrade to have to kill other Wardens, even misguided ones, and she was grateful when the unpleasant battle was finally over.

She turned to Larius. “Let’s get this over with at last,” she said, “and then... I’ll free you.”

* * *

“The seals are breaking!” the ghoul exclaimed as the strange, attenuated figure in rotting robes rose from below the floor. “He is here! Be ready!”

Caitlyn held her staff—her father’s legacy—menacingly, readying the most powerful spell she could muster. Merrill cast a series of strong Dalish wards to shield herself and readied her own staff. Varric retreated to a side nook and loaded Bianca with bolts. The two Wardens bounded forward, blades drawn and poisoned, to engage the....

_What is that thing?_ Caitlyn thought in a flash as Corypheus revealed himself. He didn’t look like any darkspawn she had ever seen. He really did look like a decayed, Blighted human. Could he really  _have_ been an ancient magister, a priest of an Old God?

“Be this some dream I wake from? Am I in dwarven lands?” the thing said, gazing around in apparent confusion. His gaze suddenly fixed upon Caitlyn, and a malicious smile formed on his face.

In that instant, something strange happened to her. Fragments of the dream she’d had the night before they had left came back, overpowering the sight before her now.

_The vast shadow, slaying someone... not Anders, please not him; the other person, whoever it is. The vivid green gash. Blood, so much blood. A long path. The gash again._

It was over in a flash, and it didn’t seem to have affected the creature at all. “You!” Corypheus demanded of Caitlyn, who was almost reeling from her... whatever it was, apparently an intrusion of the Fade into her magically attuned mind, she guessed. “Serve you at the Temple of Dumat? Bring me hence! I must speak with the First Acolyte!”

She shook her head briefly as though to clear it. “The Temple of Dumat is defiled,” she snarled back. “I did that.”

Corypheus had been about to say more, but this deliberate, blatant insult stopped him at once. “How dare you? You will suffer for your blasphemy!” he exclaimed. “Dumat! Lord! Tell me! How long have I slumbered? What waking dream is this?”

“Your god is  _ dead,  _ slain by someone like me,” Carver said, “just as you’re about to be!”

With that, the group attacked.

It was a long, brutal, difficult fight, made even more so when the thing summoned shades that attacked simultaneously as he cast lethally hot flames. They had to huddle in close quarters where only the ends of the tails of fire could burn them, which gave the shades an unfair advantage. Caitlyn and Merrill cast healing spells repeatedly, but for the first time since she had set out, she found herself wondering if it had been the wrong decision to make Anders stay behind. Carver and Darrian had struggled occasionally with the voice of Corypheus, but they had not been unduly influenced.  _ But they don’t have familiar spirits, _ she reminded herself.  _ And Merrill and I can handle— _

The flames ended, but in that moment, a blast of rock caught her from behind, slamming the breath out of her. She was quite certain it broke some of her ribs too. She tumbled to the ground and was instantly struck with a powerful bolt of lightning.

For what felt like forever, she was unable to take a breath. It could not have been more than a few seconds, but they were some of the most terrifying seconds of her life. She heard the rest of the group continuing to fight, their will perhaps intensified because she was down. When she was finally able to take a breath again, she got to her feet and cast a healing spell on herself. It was not anything like what Anders could do... she still felt drained, as if a single blow could lay her flat... but it was enough that she could fight again.

Her energy continued to flag as the group slowly, gradually, whittled Corypheus down. He continued to call on Dumat, and strangely, when he did, he was able to command a powerful spell, but Dumat was dead. The Grey Wardens had slain him long ago. Undoubtedly a demon was masquerading as the deceased Old God instead; she just hoped she wouldn’t have to face  _ that  _ after they finally defeated this thing.

The creature sent another blast of lightning at Caitlyn as she faced him directly. It knocked the wind out of her again, but she somehow managed to stay on her feet. She stared glassily at him. He was losing, and he knew that she was the greatest threat to him, somehow.

She drew her small, but deadly sharp, knife with her left hand. “Die, you ancient Tainted bastard,” she hissed weakly as she sliced a long cut in her staff arm. Blood dripped to the ground, but she clenched her fist tightly around her staff and cast a spell that she had read about in her forbidden book but never—until now—used.

Corypheus bent over, gasping and croaking, as ancient contaminated blood poured from him. Carver stared at his sister in shock for a moment, then bounded forward to finish the thing off with a blow from his sword—but the body was motionless and drained by the time he reached it. Caitlyn let out a pained gasp and tumbled to the ground, wrapping a bandage around her gash and trying to stop the bleeding with a spell.

_ Another line crossed, _ she thought,  _ but never again, ever. This once and never again. _

“Are you all right?” Varric said, approaching her. “You look rough, Hawke, I’m not going to lie.”

She gazed at him with tired eyes. “I feel rough. We did it, though. Let’s get out of here.”

Merrill was also completely drained, and she had no more lyrium with her. She did not keep much on her in the first place, and it was all gone. She cast a healing spell at Caitlyn, which in combination with Caitlyn’s own spell did help seal the cut. However, Caitlyn had sustained many injuries in the fight, and she realized now that her ribs were not yet healed. She also had a bad feeling that the blow from the rock had done something to her spine. Her legs were tingling.

“Someone put that poor fellow out of his misery,” she said, referring to Larius. “I can’t.”

“No,” the Warden said at once. “My head is clear now. I can think again.”

Warden Darrian had his blades unsheathed, but as the ghoul spoke, he wavered.

“You did well,” Larius continued. “My gratitude you have for my freedom.”

Caitlyn’s legs were tingling so intensely now that she could not get back on her feet. “Ugh,” she groaned. “Fine. Suit yourself. I don’t care anymore.”

As it was apparent that slaying the ghoul would probably be yet another fight, rather than a willing submission to a long-desired death, the rest of the group sheathed their weapons. Carver helped his sister to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll get you back home.”

Varric moved to her other side to support her. “And let’s say whatever we need to say on the way back, because Anders is going to kill us, you know.”

* * *

_“What?”_ Anders roared as Carver explained to him what they had just done and why he and Varric had had to carry Caitlyn back into her home. Her legs had completely given out once they reached the city. “She took a hit to her  _spine_ and you idiots let her continue to fight? You even let her  _walk_ for miles after her legs were tingling?”

“I defeated Corypheus!” she exclaimed from the divan on which she had been laid. “That cut on my arm....”

“Yes, I’m not even going to _talk_ about _that_ right now,” he seethed. “If you are paralyzed from this, I hope that defeating him was worth that to you!”

_“Mamma?”_

Carver, Varric, and Anders turned around. Mal was at the foot of the stairs. At Caitlyn’s instructions, Orana had ushered Leandra into the family study with a strong drink until Anders came to the room to reassure her. She had shut Mal in his bedroom, but apparently he had not gone to sleep.

“Are you....” The child’s expression was horrified and frightened. He turned to Anders. “She might not _walk_ again?”

“Oh, son,” Anders said, his face falling. “I... didn’t mean....”

The lack of an immediate reassurance that Mamma would be all right sent Mal into a whirl of desperation. He dashed into the living room. “No, Mamma,” he pleaded. “You  _will_ walk.”

“Of course I will,” she said. She believed it, too. She could feel her legs, but they could not support her weight because she seemed unable to control them. There was certainly nerve damage, but Anders could repair that, surely.

Anders gently turned her over and lifted her blouse. Shaking his head at the ugly black bruise right across her spine, he placed his hands over her and cast a diagnostic spell. He suppressed a curse for the sake of the boy. “Great. You really got hurt this time, I hope you realize. I’m going to have to cast some specialized spells on this or you really might  _not_ walk again.”

A cry escaped the child. He gave his mother a quick hug, which she returned awkwardly from her prone position, and then he stood beside her, staring in intense concentration. In spite of the circumstances, and her sudden anxiety at what Anders was saying—even though he seemed confident that his spells could prevent her from being paralyzed—she found her son’s determination endearing.

Mal stared at the bruise on Caitlyn’s back, then gazed instead at her right arm, which still bore an ugly red mark from the wound she had given herself to hemorrhage Corypheus. He placed his small hands on her arm and squinted, his face twisting in dedicated focus. He took a quick breath.

“Mal,” she began to say, turning her head to look at him, a sympathetic expression on her face, “you’re pretty young to—”

A burst of blue light emanated from the child’s hands. It was small and it vanished quickly, but it was no illusion, no mental trick, and it was utterly unmistakable.

Anders stared hard at his son, struck silent. Caitlyn almost forgot about her injuries and tried to sit upright. Across the room, Carver and Varric both drew breath sharply.

Caitlyn was not sure that the spell had actually done anything to her injury—but—

“I did it!” the boy exulted, jumping on his feet. “I did healing magic!”

“Holy Maker,” Anders said in a whisper that was almost inaudible.

“Father!” he exclaimed, turning to Anders, “let’s heal Mamma together!”

Anders was torn for a moment. The injury that Caitlyn had sustained had already gone with insufficient healing for far too long, but his son had just shown magic—at age four!  _Five this month,_ Anders thought,  _but still—that’s very young. But then... we never taught him anything against magic. He wouldn’t try to suppress it, even unconsciously._

He turned to his son. “She has delicate, difficult injuries,” he explained kindly, “and they need an experienced Healer.”

“Like you,” Mal said, a little disappointed but not too much.

“Like me. But you can watch, little Healer.”

Mal beamed as Anders turned back to Caitlyn. He tried to put his sudden burst of anxiety about his son aside and focus on healing her. Summoning all the magical energy that he could, he focused his spells on the spinal injury, sending waves of magic deep into her body to reconnect nerves, clear away fluid and clotted blood, and soothe the inflamed tissue.

At last she was able to feel control over her leg muscles again. Just as she began to move, he held her down and shook his head. “Oh no you don’t,” he said. “You’re going to let that continue to heal overnight before you try anything. I’ll carry you upstairs.”

“Now her arm,” Mal urged his father.

“Yes,” Anders said, gazing at her with ferocity in his eyes. “Her arm, indeed.” That, at least, was straightforward to heal, and he managed it quickly.

Caitlyn smiled, staring up with her chin tilted. “Thank you, love. I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

“You had better.” His tone was stern, but the sternness was rapidly leaving now that the immediate danger was over. He turned to Mal, who was still smiling.

“Mamma is going to be all right?”

“Yes, as long as Mamma rests as she is supposed to, she’ll be as good as new,” he replied. He squatted on the floor next to her and opened his arms to his son. “Now come here. I’m so, _so_ proud of you tonight.”

As Mal returned his father’s embrace, Anders’ heart was pumping with excitement, but also dread. He was very proud of Mal, just as he had said. He glanced to the side and could see that same pride in his wife’s eyes. To show magic at age five, more or less—that was unusually young, and he was also proud that his son’s first spell had been an attempt at a healing spell.

But at the same time, this meant that Mal would face challenges. _We’ll have to teach him that he cannot use magic in public... yet,_ he thought with a pang as he hugged the child closely. _After telling him and teaching him that it’s all right to be a mage, we’ll have to explain to him that he has to keep his magic private for now._ The very thought sent a flash of anger through him.

Anders tried to put that aside. He closed his eyes and embraced Mal tightly. _I will never let anyone take you away,_ he promised silently. _Your mother and I will do anything to keep you from being taken from us and locked away. Anything. This, I swear._

“You’re squeezing me, Father,” Mal said, his voice muffled by Anders’ coat.

As Caitlyn suppressed a chuckle at that, Anders released the little boy and gave him a smile. “I’m just so proud of you,” he said again. “Your mother and I both are.”

“May I tell Grandma?”

Caitlyn nodded, and Anders turned to him. “Yes—and Uncle Carver and Varric also saw it, of course, but... let’s keep it a secret from everyone else for a while yet, shall we?” The smile on Anders’ face faded, and he took a heavy breath. “Tomorrow, son, after your mother is feeling better... we need to talk with you about some things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that bang is the end of _Spells of Healing_. Not a wholly unexpected bang, but still a dramatic and portentous finish, I hope. And no, I am not answering any questions about Hawke’s dream.
> 
> I had thought about continuing this a bit longer, but I think this is the best cutoff point. It’s meant to be the “ship fic” in this series, whereas the sequel is about what happens politically in the AU as a result of the hints that have been dropped and preliminary plans that have been laid.
> 
> Here is a render of Mal that I made in the open source MakeHuman software (very fun, by the way!). Lil hero worshipper:  
> 


End file.
